


Amidst the Winds of Winter

by paranoid_fridge



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Drama, Eventual Happy Ending, Fell Winter, M/M, Pining, Post-Movie(s), canonical character deaths (Drogo and Primula)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-13
Updated: 2016-05-31
Packaged: 2018-06-08 05:33:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 47,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6841024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paranoid_fridge/pseuds/paranoid_fridge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the battle Bilbo returns to the Shire. Letters are exchanged, life goes on, and despite pining for each other, Thorin and Bilbo settle in their respective places. </p>
<p>Until one year Bilbo wakes on his birthday to find snow covering the ground and a second Fell Winter dawning upon the Shire.   </p>
<p>A missive from the Blue Mountains reveals the predicament of the Shire to Erebor. And Thorin decides that despite the distance Erebor will help. He leads an army toward the Shire, while Bilbo struggles to protect his fellow hobbits, himself, and his young cousin Frodo from encroaching wolves and orcs so they may all survive this winter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ill Omens

**Author's Note:**

> Writing this fic took a good long while, but I had fantastic support! [Seaweedredandbrown](http://seaweedredandbrown.tumblr.com/) did an amazing job betaing this monster, and [DraloreShima](https://hobbitystmarymorstan.tumblr.com/) and [ruto](http://rutobuka2.tumblr.com/) helped out, too. And some lovelies already spoiled me with art ( [Cat's wonderful sketch of Bilbo with Frodo](http://catofcream.tumblr.com/post/134886179634/this-is-a-sort-of-wip-that-ill-never-finish-for) | [Preview of more](http://catofcream.tumblr.com/post/144306930719/a-little-preview-of-my-collaboration-with-the))!
> 
> Now, this fic has angsty and violent passages, but never goes utterly dark. The first chapter, though, is mostly mutual pining and some unfortunate developments.
> 
> Edit: Links to the accompanying art are added to the relevant passages!

The sun casts a pale, wintery light over the frozen grounds before Bilbo. He shivers as the cold air penetrates his clothes, but at least walking keeps him warm. Several folded blankets sit atop his travel pack; the little bundle the dwarves would not let him leave without.

Maybe they understood why he took the Arkenstone, in the end.

[Bilbo casts one last look over his shoulder, and a brisk gust of wind ruffles through his clothes and now too long hair. Erebor stands tall in the distance, her snow-covered slopes glittering under a cloudless sky. No longer do they look quite so desolate and bleak, and Bilbo hopes the mountain will fare well in the future.](http://catofcream.tumblr.com/post/144420603989/amidst-the-winds-of-winter-chapter-1-by)

He hopes that his friends will fare well and prosper.

Bilbo turns, the faint smile on his lips fading away. He will go home. Home to his books and his armchair, to his garden. As much as he missed his home during their journey,  he knows he may miss his friends more. It is a lonely smial that awaits at the end of the road.

But, he tells himself, there is no crying over spilled milk. He knew that trading the Arkenstone would cost him dearly. After that battle, he should be glad to still be alive. There is no need for a hobbit in Erebor, much less one that already once betrayed their King.

They'll do fine without him.

And Bilbo will go home, and keep on living, and treasure these precious memories.

 

* * *

 

The torchlight casts an orange glow through Thorin’s makeshift office. Documents pile high on his desk, old tomes sit on small stool, the floor, even the cot he uses to sleep on these days. His body is far from healed; only two days ago he rose from what many expected to be his deathbed.

He has tried to make his apologies. He has begun to work hard to make up for his failures and to make amends. But his words have not sufficed. Perhaps he should never have hoped for them to suffice. Not when he still remembers how soft and fragile Bilbo’s throat felt under his hands.

And now their hobbit has left.

“You could go after him,” Balin offers with a sigh, shifting his weight as he leans on a crutch. None of them have made it out of battle without a scratch or two, and each time Thorin sees their injuries the guilt in his heart grows even heavier.

“Our informants reply he has just reached the outskirts of Mirkwood.”

Had he not allowed his mind to go astray -

Thorin’s shoulders slump a little more. The King does not look up from his desk, only shakes his head. “I wronged him greatly, Balin. I doubt he will wish to have anything to do with me.”

Balin purses his lips. “I don’t believe that.”

But he does not press the issue and limps his way out of the office to pass on the King's orders.

 

* * *

 

Bilbo reaches the Shire in late spring.

His return causes nothing short of a small riot - and Bilbo expected nothing less. But when even three weeks later Lobelia pretends not to recognize him, he does feel slightly annoyed. The rest of the Shire finds it rather entertaining: to them it even overshadows Bilbo's outlandish adventures.

They do not make him the outcast he anticipated to be. A little dwarven gold and some generosity go a long way to recover at least superficial friendships.

However, those feel shallow and he wonders if he will ever be able to connect with his fellow hobbits on a deeper level again. He has changed too much, seen too much to return to their simple, worry-free view of life. Perhaps it is arrogant of Bilbo to call his fellow hobbits petty and narrow-minded, though he does not necessarily mean it negatively nowadays. His horizon has been broadened by what he has seen, yet the perspective he gained came at the price of his ability to be content in the Shire.

It's an experience he finds to be similarly isolating and liberating.

 

* * *

 

Dwalin clears his throat and Thorin glances up from where he is slumped on the throne. The crown sits beside him, a thick pile of documents lies on his lap and his shoulders are hunched.

“We have news from the West,” Dwalin announces, and Thorin gives a short nod.

“Another caravan has set out from Ered Luin and will arrive in Erebor this mid-summer,” Dwalin informs him. “Our sources say Bilbo’s reached the Shire.”

The reaction is small, but Dwalin doesn’t miss the way the King’s eyes light up at the mention of their former burglar.

“I’m glad he reached the Shire safely,” Thorin says, sitting back on his throne as a gentle yet wistful expression spreads over his face. The shadows under his eyes have darkened again, Dwalin thinks. Happy as they all are to have regained Erebor, the mountain came at a high price.

Though Dwalin is fairly certain what else might lift Thorin’s mood. “You could write to him.”

“No, I will not bother him there,” the King continues, “I have drawn him into enough danger; now that he has returned to his peaceful home, I will not disturb him.”

Dwalin wonders if Bilbo truly does not wish to be disturbed. His letter did rather plainly say he missed his friends – and Dwalin thinks this was not merely politeness . Yet Thorin is right as well.

Their burglar is far away now, and perhaps what they all need is time to settle.

And so passes the anniversary of Durin’s Day and that terrible battle, where thirteen of their company are hailed as heroes. The fourteenth hero is not present.

 

* * *

 

On the other side of the Misty Mountains, Bilbo finds himself looking to the east often. Spring has turned the fields into lush shades of bright green and yellow, and the front yard of Bag End into a riot of colors.

He has mostly - with yet more helpings of gold and gifts - reestablished his social affairs in Hobbiton, if not his respectability. His relatives invite him to parties again, and even if the majority of the adults likes to pretend he never went on an adventure, the children are happy to listen to his stories.

This doesn’t explain why the postal messenger looks quite scandalized when he delivers a large parcel to Bilbo’s door one afternoon.

“This is highly unusual, Master Baggins,” the hobbit insists, wiping sweat from his reddened forehead. “And it’s heavy indeed. From such a distant location, one wonders what might -”

“Thank you very much for your trouble,” Bilbo replies smoothly, and presses a handful of shillings into the hobbit’s hand. “I’m certain this must be the delivery I ordered from Bree. Wasn’t expecting it quite so soon, but thank you nonetheless.”

It’s not the truth – Bilbo cannot read them, but he does recognize the runes lining the chest – but a delivery from Bree is much less scandalous than one from farther away. He waves the postman on, and then disappears into his home. Bilbo makes certain to carry the chest away from curious eyes, to his library at the end of his smial.

Humming to himself, he unlatches the chest. Remarkable that it traveled all this way without being damaged or stolen. Likely – as the accompanying letter affirms – his dwarves paid good money to see the chest be delivered all the way to the Shire.

“Wish you’d been there for the feast,” is what the letter boils down to, and Bilbo smiles at the descriptions of the revel. Bofur apparently danced on all the tables – and there must have been many, though apparently Bombur broke two when attempting to emulate his cousin – Oin was seen dancing naked on the parapets, and Ori invented a new language during the night.

“ _I have missed your presence and your counsel,_ ” Thorin writes in a slightly unsteady hand. It’s the first letter from Thorin Bilbo receives after a formal and lengthy note of apology. Perhaps the festivities and the wine had something to do with it for the anniversary date of the battle is etched on the top right corner of the parchment. “ _Long and often have I thought about what occurred on this day a year ago, and to this day my actions haunt me. You write all is forgiven, and I would believe so, yet I find that letters take so long and convey so little._

_Most of all I find I miss speaking to you. I would have your opinions on my councilors, our mountain, the state of affairs in the East. More than once I have sat among my councilors shouting at each other and wondered to myself what you would have done. If I could do like Gandalf, I would ask the Eagles to bring you here!_

_But I will not whisk you away from your home once more, for the last time I did so brought you much trouble and pain. If you wish to, you will always have a home in Erebor; but until that time I hope the kindly west has you faring well._ ”

[Bilbo blinks, wipes his eyes. You’re getting daft, he tells himself as he looks to the window. Fluffy white clouds trail across the sky, green grass sways on the hills facing east.](http://catofcream.tumblr.com/post/144420603989/amidst-the-winds-of-winter-chapter-1-by)

And yet his heart aches all the more fiercely when he unpacks the chest and finds a beautifully bound and richly illustrated tome detailing the events of their quest. _The Official Account of the Reclamation of Erebor_ , by Ori Rison and Balin Fundinson, it says. A second, smaller edition is written entirely in Khuzdul.

Bilbo’s eyebrows rise in amusement.

Besides the books, he also discovers a wonderfully warm fur coat, several small selections of teas and pipeweed from the east and south, spices, herbs, and a set of toy figurines. Bilbo pulls one of them closer, intrigued, and promptly recognizes Fili’s features.

“ _Those are an absolute hit_ ,” Bofur’s accompanying note explains. “ _Bifur’s got orders for five years and even the knock-off shops are selling out faster than they can produce. It’s mad!_ ”

Bilbo chuckles to himself and on a whim decides to place the entire selection of figurines on his bookshelf. There they remain, until Primula and Drogo come for an extended visit with their young son – who falls in love with the figures the moment he discovers them.

From then on the figurines end up wherever Frodo places them when he sends them on adventures. More than once Bilbo has discovered Ori’s figurine sitting on his own writing desk, while Fili’s and Kili’s often end up outside. Bombur and Bofur Bilbo finds in the kitchen - including one notable incident when Frodo sets out the entire company in Bilbo’s teacups - while Thorin is placed on the highest shelf.

“He’s surveying the scene,” Frodo explains to Bilbo and his parents. “A King does that, doesn’t he?”

Bilbo thinks of Thorin in Erebor. How he must sit on his throne these days, majestic and venerable. “He does, my boy.”

“I wish I could meet him one day,” Frodo mutters. “All of them! I want to hear more about their adventures!”

 

* * *

 

So time passes.

There is limited correspondence between Erebor and the Shire. Bilbo diligently keeps up his writing, and the dwarves always return those letters. Dori writes lengthy treatises about tea and spice imports from the far east, while Bofur is good for sharing bawdy songs and recording all those moments the official chronicles will never retell.

Ori sends drawings. He documents the ongoing repairs, shows how far Erebor has come since they first drove out the dragon. There are portraits too, documenting how all of them are growing into their roles, looking healthy and proud.

Except Thorin. He has physically recovered from the battle, though some scars will not fade. He’s the one who, more than any of them, misses Bilbo the most.

Looking at him, Balin wonders if there was not more between the King under the Mountain and his hobbit burglar than they ever let anybody know. It would explain the sometimes (seemingly unintentional) wistful tone of Bilbo’s letters.

But regardless of what may have been, they now live on different ends of the world.

 

* * *

 

"Planning another adventure, cousin?" Drogo asks, emerging from Bag End with a large pack on his back.

Bilbo laughs and turns away from the east. "Lobelia made it very clear that the next time I leave on an adventure, she will personally see to it that I remain deceased."

Drogo whistles. "Ouch."

"But if you want to travel, Bilbo," Primula chimes in as she bustles outside with an even larger pack on her shoulders and a small hobbit on her hand, "Come and visit us in Buckland. You know we're always glad to have you over."

"Yes, yes, come visit, uncle Bilbo!" Frodo cheerfully adds, beaming up at Bilbo.

"I'll see if I can make it," Bilbo promises.

Primula draws him into a hug. "Thank you for hosting us," she tells him, and then catches his eye. "Promise you'll come for Yule at least!"

"Yes, yes," Bilbo nods obediently. "Now off with you. Else you won't even make it to Frogmorton before nightfall!"

They haven't chosen the best day to travel, Bilbo thinks, watching the clouds gather in the north. Hopefully they'll make it to Frogmorton before the clouds burst. He can still remember the discomfort of wet clothes sticking to his skin, his feet tripping over rocks under the downpour in the mountains.

And, quite strangely, a part of him misses this. The hardships of the journey, the discomfort, yes; he misses the discomfort.

This brings his terrible cold in Laketown back to his mind, which in the end was not quite so bad, not with Thorin doting on him. He still imagines the dwarf’s broad, roughened hands gliding over his skin at night.

Bilbo pushes the memory aside. He was lucky to have experienced this. Now he will make the best of what he has now.

And it's not so bad either, he tells himself, looking at the family wandering into the distance. There might be something left in the Shire for him to enjoy.

It's the last time he sees them.

 

* * *

 

The summer visit never happens. Instead, Bilbo receives a harried messenger in late May, telling him that Primula and Drogo drowned. Frodo, pale and red-eyed at the funeral, will stay in Buckland. He is close to his cousins there, and beloved by his aunts and uncles.

It's for the best, Bilbo thinks.

 

* * *

 

Autumn that year arrives with a flurry of rough winds and cold air. A rich summer left the hobbits with plenty to be harvested from the fields, so they don't mind the cooler weather. But eyes turn to the sky, and Bilbo too, wonders.

On the morning of his birthday he wakes to find the sky a pale blue, the sun not yet up, with a thin layer of snow covering the ground.

Bilbo jerks upright. There had never been snow at his birthday. It is far too early. Far too soon! They haven't even brought in everything from the fields yet!

His stomach twists. It may just be an early frost, but it feels like a bad omen.

Several hours later the snow has completely vanished, and the air grown pleasantly warm when Bilbo receives the guests for his small birthday party. Quite a few of his Took cousins have come, and so have most of his Baggins relations.

He’s rather taken aback, however, when another knock sounds at the door just before tea, and Gerontius and Adamanta Took stride in. Before Bilbo has quite registered what is happening, his grandmother has drawn him into a hug.

“Happy Birthday, lad,” Gerontius greets cheerfully as he bustles past them into Bag End’s warm entrance hall. “We heard you were making your cherry cake - so we invited ourselves.”

“I hope you don’t mind,” Adamanta adds, and pinches Bilbo’s cheek.

Bilbo smiles calmly. “Not at all,” he replies. The unexpected party all those years ago taught him well to prepare for unannounced guests. And his grandparents are a most welcome addition to the small party.

Despite the party being small by hobbit standards, Bilbo certainly can’t complain. His first cake vanishes within moments, all but inhaled by hungry hobbits. Though since this is not Bilbo’s first encounter with Fortinbras Took’s bottomless stomach, Bilbo has been prepared. So once his cousin has eaten roughly half of the first cake and started on the pastries, Bilbo brings out the second one.

While they all talk and laugh together, the daylight outside begins to fade, and the first guests take their leave.

“If you don’t leave now, you won’t make it to Tuckborough before late,” Bilbo’s aunt Donnamira says to Gerontius and Adamanta as she gathers her presents. “And after the snow this morning, who knows what this night will bring.”

Her words are light, but the jovial mood leaves Bilbo.

“We have a room at the inn,” Adamanta replies without missing a beat. “Even if we left now, we’d never make it back before nightfall. It takes at least an hour or two to reach Tuckborough, and that is if you ride a pony.”

“But you can stay here,” Bilbo offers his grandparents as they watch Donnamira wander down the winding path. A cool wind picks up, Bilbo shudders and gazes over the valley where Hobbiton sits. Already most of the trees wear their colorful autumn coat, and soon the harvests will be completed.

It is unusually cold for this time of the year.

“I really hope the snow hasn’t harmed the harvest,” Adamanta says, gazing at the distant fields, still golden under the light of the setting sun.

“This little snow won’t have done any harm,” Gerontius replies easily, though he frowns. “It’s rather early, though, for the first snow to fall. Then again, back in the day we once saw snowfall in late May, so it may just have been a fluke.”

Bilbo shifts his weight uneasily. “What if it isn’t?” he asks, quietly.

His grandfather straightens his back. “We’ll be prepared,” he says, and Bilbo realizes that even on the chance of this being a fluke, as the Thain his grandfather begun preparations the moment he woke to find snow covering the ground. Those preparations likely also brought them to Hobbiton today, Bilbo realizes.

“We spoke with the mayor earlier. He wasn’t happy, but apparently the granaries are already filled. The bounders will be keeping an eye out for any signs of trouble - but I don’t believe we have to worry just yet,” Adamanta explains.

Bilbo nods thoughtfully.

“Well, I’m going back inside,” Gerontius announces. “Feel free to follow at your leisure, but don’t be surprised if the table’s been cleared then.” He turns on his heel and makes his way back towards Bag End’s warm and well-lit dining room. Laughter echoes from that direction, and Bilbo makes to follow, but his grandmother’s hand on his arm stops him.

“I’m sorry if it appears that our visit was merely out of convenience,” she tells Bilbo. “Your mother would have yelled at us as long and loud as she could.” She smiles and reaches up to brush a stray lock of hair from Bilbo’s face.

“She’d also want you to smile more. Or go on another adventure, if this is what it takes,” she adds. “Don’t worry, this time we won’t let Lobelia take Bag End. Or allow Otho to become the family head.” She shudders. “Frodo may be quite young, but I think his aunt Dora will do a good job until he’s old enough.”

Bilbo blinks. His cousin Dora easily runs the Shire’s most successful wine yard, selling her wines down to Rohan through a number of middlemen. She’d certainly do a good job - though her ambitious spirit, Bilbo thinks, may be an even worse fit for the complacent Baggins family than his adventurous personality.

“She’d … do,” Bilbo manages.

Adamanta laughs. “Well, or you go and marry and get your own heir.”

“No,” Bilbo promptly replies, and involuntarily he gazes to the east. “No,” he repeats more quietly. While they never truly had a chance, his heart belongs to Thorin.

His grandmother hasn’t missed his reaction. “If your heart longs for it, you should go. The Shire … will always be your home, and yes, you probably will miss it. From time to time I still miss Bindbale.” She smiles and looks northwest, and Bilbo, who has only been to Bindbale once, recalls blooming orchards and a bright green forest. Then he thinks of Erebor’s snow-covered slopes against a pale blue sky.

“I miss it, but I’d not move back for the world. It would have changed too much.” She turns back to Bilbo. “And I wonder if that isn’t also true for you. Bella wouldn’t have wanted you to stay just out of duty, and Bungo wouldn’t have, either. If your heart pulls you east, go.”

She is right. And yet...

“It’s not quite that simple,” Bilbo replies.

“It’s that important dwarf, isn’t it?” she asks, and when Bilbo flinches she laughs. “You’re a good storyteller, but when half of the stories I hear figure one person at their heart, I think I’m allowed to take a guess.”

Bilbo feels his ears redden as the blood rises to his head.

“I’m not wrong, am I?” Adamanta states with a sparkle in her eyes. “I may be in my nineties, but I still recognize that Baggins’ pining look - your father used to wear it all the time.” She grows serious again. “I don’t know what the situation is - and you needn’t tell me. But even if it’s complicated, as long as you are here and your dwarf is wherever he is, you will never have even the smallest of  chances.”

What they had was enough, Bilbo wants to proclaim. Too many old wounds still lie between them. Thorin has his kingdom to care for. Yet at the end of the day, Bilbo realizes that all these reasons and arguments are also excuses. In truth, he does not know what would happen should he return to Erebor.

Thorin’s letters, at least, have given him hope that his feelings are not unrequited.

He draws a deep breath of the chilly air. “Winter is no time to travel.”

 

* * *

 

At the beginning of Winterfilth temperatures rise once again, and for a fortnight or two everybody relaxes. The weather has returned to normal, the hobbits carry in the last of grain and hold their annual harvest feast.

Bilbo looks at the filled granaries, thinks of his utterly filled pantries with trepidation and relief. They are prepared.

And that is well,  for only three nights after the harvest festival, the temperatures drop abruptly. A harsh, cold wind blows grey clouds down from the north, bringing first frost, then snow and ice. Bilbo, sitting in his library with a steaming cup of tea, looks out at the thin layer of snow covering his garden, and the leafless tree looking like a black skeleton against a grey sky.

Winterfilth snows have happened before.

This really feels like a terrible omen.

He looks at the dwarven figurines standing on his bookshelves, and his eyes automatically turn to Thorin’s. What would he do, Bilbo wonders.

 

* * *

 

That year, the traditional last autumn letter, the one Bilbo sends before the passes close down, never reaches Erebor. Balin wonders if it got lost in transport – after all, it is some distance between the Lonely Mountain and the Shire, even if the ravens often carry correspondence.

Then an exhausted-looking bird arrives from Ered Luin.

“ _Dearest brother_ ,” Dis – now Queen of Ered Luin, writes, “ _I write to you as Queen of Ered Luin in a matter I believe may be of importance for you. Ered Luin has fared well, and our reserves are plenty since we began to trade with the Shire as you suggested._

_It is on behalf of the hobbits that I am writing to you._

_Winter has come early this year. While I do not put much faith in portents, the summer birds all have flown south earlier than usual. Snow is falling much earlier than expected. Rumors claim the weather to be much harsher in the north, and I received intelligence about movements of larger numbers of orcs in the lands of Angmar._

_These are distant from both Ered Luin and the Shire, but should the winter grow harsher still, I believe snow and despair may drive them south. While Ered Luin can close its gates, the Shire does not have such stone defences. Its rich grain reserves, I fear, may rather turn them into a promising target for despairing orcs and other starving creatures._

_I have already dispatched a small squadron of warriors to help the hobbits build defenses, but as you know, our numbers are few. So if feasible – and I am aware of the distance from Erebor to the Shire – I would encourage you to send help as well._

_Else I fear for the Shire and its inhabitants._ ”


	2. First Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Winter continues. While Thorin travels west, the hobbits discover that the threat they are facing might be worse than anticipated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [catofcream](www.catofcream.tumblr.com) posted amazing artwork for the first chapter over on tumblr! [Go and take a look - it's gorgeous](http://catofcream.tumblr.com/post/144420603989/amidst-the-winds-of-winter-chapter-1-by)!

Frodo Baggins watches snowflakes drift down outside the window. He wishes he could go outside and get away from his loud cousins and nosy relatives – but he knows he cannot have what he really wants. Why did they have to go? Why did they have to go fishing, when they knew they couldn’t swim?

He presses his eyes together, choking his tears back.

“Frodo, dear, come away from the window,” his aunt calls, “Isn’t it cold there?” 

Frodo remains silent. With a small sigh, Asphodel Brandybuck draws the thick curtains closed before reaching out to ruffle his hair. “It’ll be night soon, and then there’s nothing out there to see. Why don’t you join your cousins?”

Frodo glances to the other children, who are playing some sort of game. He never disliked his cousins before, but he doesn’t want to play with them now. Not when they’ll shout for their parents every other moment, who’ll  _ oh  _ and  _ ah  _ at whatever they did – and there is no one Frodo can call.

Why did they have to go  _ boating,  _ of all things?

* * *

“You cannot – “ Balin starts, but Thorin interrupts him with a shake of his head.

“I can and I will,” he insists, adding another bundle of clothes to his pack. Dwalin crosses his arms over his chest, reminding himself to grab his warmest coat, too. The mountains are unforgiving at this time of the year.

“You are King now,” Balin tries again, “You cannot just run off out of the blue. No matter how much –“

Thorin straightens his back. “Balin. Allow me this, please. Rule in my stead, I know you will do well. But I must do this.”

Balin purses his lips, but from the shine in his eyes Dwalin knows his brother has already been convinced. Thorin turns back to his packing, reaches for a set of small knives. They’ll need bows, Dwalin thinks, making a note to inform his commanders.

“What about Fili?” Balin asks. “Shouldn’t he be the one to rule in your place?”

“I doubt he or his brother will agree to remain here,” Thorin snorts. They’re much too fond of their hobbit, Thorin knows. Even if he commanded them to stay, he thinks they would still find a way to get to the Shire.

“This is highly irregular,” Balin cautions, “What if something comes up? What if Dain calls for aid? What if there’s unrest in Dale or –“

Thorin doesn’t stop packing. “It’s winter,” he replies without so much as looking up to his friends, “There has never been major unrest here in winter.”

“What if something comes up with Mirkwood?” Balin tries again.

Thorin glances up. “Then you will decide on the best course of action. Balin, you are to be King under the Mountain in my absence.”

Balin frowns. “I’d rather go as well.” Dwalin holds back a grin – his brother has been complaining about his joints acting up. He’s not up to travel in winter anymore, which they all know.

“Balin,” Thorin says again, “Please.”

And it’s decided.

* * *

At the end of Winterfilth, the snow has completely buried most of the Shire. The hobbits struggle to keep the most used roads free of the white cloak of winter, though the children delight in building snowmen. 

Bilbo wraps a scarf around his face before stepping outside. Today, the sun is out and the sky cloudless – he can hear a few children laughing somewhere nearby. It’s the perfect weather for some shovelling work. 

By  noon the road before Bag End is at least walkable, and Bilbo’s face bright red. He is wiping the sweat from his forehead, when he sees Hamfast coming up the hill.

“Mr. Baggins,” his gardener greets, holding up a basket with fresh pies, “Compliments of Bell. She said it looked as if you’d forgotten Elevenses again.”

Bilbo chuckles and inclines his head. “How perceptive of her. Tell her thank you, please.” He accepts the basket, making a mental note to prepare something nice for the Gamgees in return.

Hamfast’s expression grows more serious. “Mr. Baggins, I wonder, do you think this winter will be bad?” He shifts his weight, and Bilbo hesitates for a moment: should he reassure his friend, or warn him?

Today the weather  _ is  _ fine, that is true,  but it has been snowing for weeks... and winter is likely to last at least another three months.

“I think making preparations may not be ill-advised,” Bilbo replies.

Hamfast sighs. “You know, I don’t really remember much about the Fell Winter, but my old man always said it was downright terrible. You took sick, too, didn’t you?”

Bilbo nods. His memories of those days are utterly blurred – even years later, he does not know what then was real and what a figment of his imagination.  “It was a very bad winter.”

Hamfast hums, stomps his feet. Bilbo feels the sweat cooling on his brow and realizes they’ve been standing in the snow for a good while – even though the sun is out, it’s simply too cold to stand around chatting idly.

“I guess we should prepare, then,” Hamfast resolves with a sigh before leaving.

Bilbo agrees and waves after him. He cast another look to the cloudless sky. They should prepare – the Fell Winter cost many lives due to a lack of precautions. If they get people to move together early enough, if they set up patrols, and try to stop the Brandywine from freezing over, things may not end up as bad as back then.

He wonders what the situation in Buckland is like. Since the snow began to fall, nobody from Hobbiton has traveled further than Frogmorton.

Shaking his head, he returns his attention to the task at hand, making certain the stairs leading up to his front porch are free of snow and ice, and that his supply of firewood is well-stocked. He’s grateful for it, when, after the sun has set, he retires to his living room with a comfortable blanket and a cup of tea.

He is rereading their stay in Thranduil’s realm from the dwarven chronicle and marveling at how different everything looks through the lense of official historiography. Bilbo chuckles at Ori’s description of the dwarves’ capture by the elves; in Bilbo’s memory there was far less suffering in silence and quite a bit of loud jibes shouted at the elves, as well as half-baked escape plans and curses in Khuzdul thrown about.  A strange, abrupt voice from the outside breaks his concentration. It is a high-pitched, piercing sound – almost like a howl.

Bilbo frowns. No, that must have been his imagination. Perhaps it’s one of the logs that just caught fire – they sometimes do make the oddest sounds. Perhaps it’s the wind.

He hears it again.

Bilbo’s blood runs cold. It’s a high, bone-penetrating wolf’s howl, carrying over from behind the hill, somewhere north of Hobbiton. The sound echoes over the snow-covered hills and fields, past warm and well-lit smials. It grinds the entire world to a halt.

The last time wolves came to the Shire was the Fell Winter.

And even then – they only came after the turn of the year.

* * *

Thorin, Dwalin, Kili, and a small hand-picked group of ten dwarves reach Mirkwood within a day. Fili will follow them, leading Erebor’s main host - nearly 150 armed dwarves - once their preparations have been completed. Bofur, Bifur, Nori and Ori are joining him. Despite wanting to ride ahead with Thorin, the King under the Mountain managed to convince them that their skills were more needed with the main host.

Who, he acknowledges, may rightfully wonder why Erebor is riding to aid a small land on the other side of the Misty Mountains. Ori will spin that story, Thorin trusts the scribes skill with narrations, Bofur and Bifur will see it spread and Nori will be there to catch all instances of unrest. 

Bombur, Dori, Gloin, Oin and Balin had to stay behind. Their part of this rescue is to keep Erebor stable and see she weathers the winter well. 

Thorin’s group quickly bypasses Dale,  and they spurr their rams forward across a frost-covered plane until the winding path filled with gnarled roots forces them to slow their pace. Even Erebor’s war-proven rams dislike the forest’s uneven ground - and share their riders’ wish to cross the forest as swiftly as possible. 

The elves of Mirkwood are surprised to meet them.

“We were not informed you would be traveling, King under the Mountain,” the head of the Mirkwood guard patrolling the forest road announces stiffly. 

Thorin slows his ram but demonstratively does not stop. He’d rather have taken another route, but the elven path is the quickest way into Eriador.

“We travel on urgent business,” Kili replies swiftly, with no regard for formality. “There was no time to send a messenger ahead.”

The guard frowns in stark disbelief, obviously suspecting a plot or something foul at play.

“Your King, I believe, may be interested in the matter himself,” Thorin coolly states. After all, Thranduil named Bilbo  _ elf-friend _ . Though it would be unsurprising, if not a bit bitter, should the Elf King not help a friend once more), he ought to at least let the dwarves pass.

“Send word to him and we will meet him on the way. It is of utmost importance we continue.”

The guard hesitates. “I cannot let you pass –“ he begins.

“These are not your King’s lands,” Thorin interrupts sharply. “Erebor pays your kingdom a handsome sum to see this road maintained. Should we not have a right to use it?”

The guard’s face twists. 

“If there are any further question, tell your King or whomever to just find us on the road,” Kili interrupts, already propelling his goat forward. “It’s not as if our group will be difficult to find.” 

That settles it.  Thorin urges his ram forward. The elf steps aside at the nick of time, glaring at Thorin, but the king continues, unimpressed.

* * *

Mirkwood, Thorin notices despite a myriad of distracting worries, has changed. The forest road still twists and bends, but feels less hidden nowadays. Frequent usage by trading caravans likely helped; now there are markers set up at particularly confusing junctions. 

“Looks like the spiders are gone, too,” Kili comments when they make camp the first evening. Night has already fallen, and even now the dwarves’ torches are struggling to cast light through the thick darkness of Mirkwood. At least the trees also keep out the bitter cold that has begun to settle in - the air remains still and mild.

Thorin lifts his torch to glance up at the trees. He sees no webs. “We still should set a watch,” he declares, and Dwalin nods in agreement. The other dwarves with them do not protest - not even when, even before the sun rises again, they are awoken to continue their journey.

Thorin doesn’t mind. His dreams have been dark - ever since his sister’s ominous letter reached Erebor, he closes his eyes to see nightmares. The Shire sunken under meters of now; its inhabitants dead. Frozen stiff, with their limbs turned black by frostbite. Torn apart by hungry scavengers.

He is glad to be moving again.

Of course hoping the elves would let them pass like that was too much to expect. Three days into Mirkwood, they meet Thranduil. Escorted by a group of armored guards the elf king awaits them where the road straddles the border to his territory.

“Thorin Oakenshield,” Thranduil coolly greets, “What brings you to my domain?”

Thorin skillfully steers his ram around the elves, refusing to stop. He knows the border to Thranduil’s realm lies just next to the old forest road. Thranduil knows it too, which is why his little troupe keeps on the left side of it, firmly in Thranduil’s lands.

“I am not here on a diplomatic visit,” Thorin says without turning his head, “Else you would have been properly informed. We are merely using the old forest road to travel west.” If they make good time, he reminds himself, they may reach the enchanted river tonight.

Thranduil inclines his head. “And what leads you west? I was under the impression you had reclaimed your kingdom? Have you set your eyes on another mountain?”

Another mountain there is indeed - Moria. But the pain that runs through Thorin at that  one memory has grown almost dull in comparison to his current worries. The humiliation his people have suffered there is stark, yet it pales against the urgency that pushes him  eastward.

“I travel to lend aid to one I call friend,” Thorin says, emphasizing the word friend. “I received word the Shire is threatened by wolves and orcs.”

Thranduil’s lips have thinned at the reminder. “Hardly a threat dire enough to draw a King from his kingdom.”

“These are hobbits,” Thorin replies sharply, anger rising in his chest, “They are no warriors and they have no armies to protect them. Yet their stores of produce and grain are the richest in Eriador, which means once winter sets in, many eyes will turn to them.” He lets Thranduil consider that. “Moreover,  I will always ride to the aid of those I call friends.”

Thranduil’s expression darkens ever so slightly. He does not appreciate the reminder, nor being implied lacking as a friend of Bilbo’s.

“In that case, I bid you to wait, for I will send a unit of my warriors along,” Thranduil finally announces, “For I have a friend in the Shire, too.”

Thorin is almost surprised enough to stop. Instead his smile grows cynical – so Thranduil does lend aid. Only not to dwarves. It’s a bitter realization, but nothing truly new. And at least that shows how much  Bilbo is appreciated.

“They can join my main host, then,” Thorin suggests, “My nephew will lead them through the Misty Mountains. I expect they will walk past your borders on this path in about five days time.”

* * *

Despite the short pause Thorin’s group reaches the river by nightfall. It’s too dark to navigate across it, though several boats line the shore now. The bridge, Thorin is glad to see, is being repaired as well.

As they settle down for a short meal, a rustling in the bushes makes Dwalin jump to his feet and Kili draw his bow. But no beast emerges from the darkening undergrowth - instead the light of their torches reflects of familiar, long red hair.

“Your highness,” Tauriel inclines her head, and Thorin would have to be blind not to see the smile blooming on Kili’s face. “Allow me to ride with you.” She is leading a horse behind her, well-equipped for a long journey.

Several dwarves frown at that. Kili turns pleading eyes onto his uncle. “She is a good warrior. She can help,” he says. 

Thorin recalls seeing her fight in battle more than once, and even Dwalin supports Kili’s words with a nod. In truth, Thorin never planned on opposing her inclusion. Rather, he made Kili part of his advance group in hopes he would be able to help out should they encounter difficulties in dealing with the elves. 

“Very well,” Thorin gives a nod. “You and Kili can take the first watch; everybody else go to sleep. We continue early tomorrow.”

* * *

On the next morning, the entirety of Hobbiton is in an uproar. They’ve all heard the wolves and rumors make the rounds that somebody even saw them. Huge beasts they were, almost as tall as a hobbit, their furs black and their teeth sharp and glinting - and despite knowing better than to trust those rumors, Bilbo looks to the north with unease. 

Bilbo is not surprised when an out-of-breath cousin knocks on his door shortly past elevenses to tell  him that the Thain is coming to Hobbiton. Everybody, especially the family heads, is to gather at the Green Dragon. With a sharp nod and a shilling for the lad, Bilbo tells him he’ll be there, before he goes back to gather his cloak.

He has known that this meeting would be coming for a while now.

It doesn’t make the anxiety crawling underneath his skin any better, but he is not unprepared. This time, he tells himself, they won’t be surprised as badly as they were during the Fell Winter. Back then they had no warning before the first wolves showed up –

This year they will be prepared.

* * *

“Mr.Baggins,” he is greeted immediately as he enters the Green Dragon by various acquaintances and relatives. He replies with polite nods while making his way over to the central table, where the mayor, the Thain, and several family heads are seated. They wait for two other family heads to arrive. The late comers only take a few moments to join, yet what he hears amid the nervous chatter of his fellow hobbits chills Bilbo to the bone.

Rumors say that the wolves have already attacked a home up in the North Farthing the night before.

The mayor clears his throat. “Now, as it seems that everybody is here, I think we can begin. It should be obvious to most why we are meeting here today: this winter is already harsher than all those before and last night wolves were sighted in the North Farthing.”

“Was anyone attacked?” Minto Burrows interrupts.

The mayor shakes his head. “No, and apparently the beasts have already left the area.” 

“But they may return before the winter is over,” the Thain interrupts harshly, and raises his voice to be heard by all in the crowded room. “The winter may yet turn mild and warm and not bring further trouble. Yet it may not, and I will not see the devastation of the Fell Winter repeated.”

“Then what do we do?” Hilda Greenhand shouts from her table.

“Ration your food and tinder, and prepare to share them,” the Thain immediately replies, and Bilbo can see many faces fall at the mere idea. “Every family needs to take stock of what they have and look into how those reserves may spread out until spring. I ask for the family heads to submit those numbers to me; that way we may arrange for the farmers and those who have more than enough to suppose those who don’t.”

“But the –“

“Once everybody has survived the winter, I believe you’ll find they’ll gladly pay you whatever is owed,” the Thain sharply interrupt the protest and Bilbo finds himself nodding in agreement. “The important thing is that we all survive – we mustn’t lose sight of that.”

A shudder runs through the crowded room.

“Related to that, while the situation seems not too dire right now, there are additional precautions I would like to suggest,” the mayor continues. “As we do not know if the wolves may come back, I advise to avoid all outside activities after nightfall. Travel, if necessary, is to be conducted by pony or in groups accompanied by a bounder.”

He nods to Erling Cotton, First Shirriff of the bounders of the Shire, who rises to his feet. “As we expect to be fairly busy this winter, we are, naturally, looking for volunteers to join us.”

As nervous chatter rises, a grin steals across the man’s face. “Who will, of course, not be expected to fight or anything. The tasks of the bounders are collecting information, observing the Shire borders and carrying messages between the settlements.”

Despite the bounder’s words, Bilbo sees that his hands are callused the way Thorin’s were - from handling weapons, not farming tools. Some of the bounders are skilled in handling swords and bows, but hobbits are no fighters.

Still, the response in Hobbiton leaves much to be desired, and Bilbo hopes that Erling will find more volunteers in Tuckborough, Michel Delving, Bindbale, and Buckland. As the meeting dissolves into a repetition of questions and answers and many private conversations, Bilbo finds his attention wandering to the bounder again.

“Master Cotton,” he says quietly and waves to catch the hobbit’s attention. After a short word to the Thain and the mayor, Erling departs their company and makes his way over to the table where Bilbo now sits on his own. First Shirrif Cotton is tall for a hobbit and dressed in a simple warm tunic. A black cloak hangs over his arm and he sets it down as he slides onto the chair next to Bilbo.

“Master Baggins,” he greets and a spark of curiosity lights his solemn grey eyes. “What can I do for you?”

Bilbo wonders for a moment if this is truly a good idea, before explaining: “I was thinking about joining the bounders. Or helping out in any other capacity.”

Erling’s eyes widen. “You…” he begins before regaining his composure, and Bilbo suppresses a frown. Of all gentlehobbits, probably only the Took family regularly saw their own members join the bounders. “Of course.” 

“I am not a particularly skilled fighter,” Bilbo continues, thinking of swinging his blade at Azog and stumbling his way through battle. He has killed wargs - but those are different from the wolves that crossed the river during the Fell Winter. “Though I can help if I must.”

A pale smile steals over Erling’s face. “Fighting against those wolves would be our very last resort, Master Baggins. What is more important right now is to establish a network that reliably transports information across the Shire, and to set traps. Hopefully with that we can keep the wolves at bay and ourselves out of danger.”

Bilbo nods, feeling sheepish. Of course, hobbits will not go to war against wolves. They will not be leading armies into battle, nor has their enemy a commander leading them. 

“If I may be so bold, Master Baggins, I believe you would make a great addition to our messenger network,” Erling says, and then glances over to the middle of the room where the Thain and the mayor still field questions from worried hobbits. 

“Hobbiton is not far from Tuckborough, and Hobbiton is far easier to be reached from North Farthing and Buckland,” Erling explains. “All you would have to do is relay messages coming in from there to the Thain.”

Bilbo agrees.

* * *

When Bilbo makes the trek back home that day he keeps gazing over the snow-covered fields uneasily. What if more wolves have come? What if they are prowling just behind the next hill? 

To the east the sky grows dark already and to the north the clouds hang deep over the hills. They will bring fresh snowfall during the night, adding to the already ankle-high layer covering the ground. Bilbo sighs with relief when he turns onto the winding path leading up to his smial, though today Hobbiton feels deserted. 

The wind does not carry up faint singing from the Green Dragon. No hobbits work in their gardens, nor does the smell of freshly baked bread waft through the air. Instead the doors are closed and the curtains have been drawn.

A shiver runs down Bilbo’s spine and he hurries his steps. Except for swaying tree branches nothing stirs on the hill - he hurries to shut the door behind him and locks it, before slumping with a sigh. Today has been terrible, and there is little hope things will get better before the winter is over.

Bilbo lets the thick cloak slide off his shoulders and onto the floor, for once not minding the wet patches it leaves. Slowly warmth begins to seep back into his fingers. But soon, he knows, he must begin to ration his firewood as well. They learned during the Fell Winter, that Bag End’s size meant it was impossible to keep all rooms equally heated. 

Not tonight, though, Bilbo thinks to himself and warily trudges over to his mother’s glory box. At the bottom lay an old axe and two rusty swords - leftovers from the battle of Greenfields. On the top sit Bilbo’s newer acquisitions: Sting and his mithril shirt.

Bilbo picks up the mail. As Thorin promised, the mithril has not dulled or stiffened, it still feels light as a feather. It was, despite the circumstances, a grand gift. One that Bilbo has always treasured. 

One that hopefully will save his life in the months to come.

And yet a part of Bilbo would still gladly trade all the armor in the world for Thorin’s presence. In these dark times, he wishes he could ask him for guidance. But no bird will fly at this time of the year. Bilbo must weather this alone.

* * *

Fourteen days after Thorin’s group left Erebor, the trees of Mirkwood recede and in the distance before them the Misty Mountains rise dramatically. Snow-covered peaks tower over the grassy plain before them, and Thorin eyes them critically.

“The high pass won’t be open,” Dwalin comments, keeping his ram right next to Thorin’s.

“The snow doesn’t look so deep yet,” Thorin replies, “But crossing over the lower pass will be faster.”

“There have been rumors of goblin activity around that route,” Himril, Oin’s former student, interjects. (As Oin had to stay behind, he sent Himril to replace him. “Best healer Erebor has,” had been the verdict. “Just don’t let him know.”)

“I think our rams will be capable of evading them,” Thorin declares. The beast under him is moving faster – it seems the sight of the mountains has awakened a new strength in both of them. Neither dwarves nor rams felt particularly at home in the forest.

Thorin takes a deep breath. The Mountains... if all goes well, they might pass Rivendell in another six days. He’d rather bypass the valley, though he might send a runner down to inform the elves of the host following after. Perhaps Rivendell will also lend their help to the Shire - he recalls Bilbo writing of a longer sojourn there on his journey home.

Rest and recovery, Bilbo had termed it, and Thorin once again cursed himself for not stopping the hobbit from leaving the mountain so quickly. Bilbo should have stayed in Erebor - been granted his due. His share of the treasure as well as all the apologies owed to him. 

Maybe this time Thorin will have a chance to make up for it. 

There probably is no hope to recover those fragile feelings, but seeing Bilbo again - maybe even seeing him smile once the danger has been banished - will more than make this mad trip worth it. 

* * *

That night, wolves howl again over the hills of Hobbiton. Bilbo grimaces, as he pours himself another cup of tea. Before him lie the collected lists of the various families that constitute the Baggins clan – he’d half-expected obtaining the information would be more difficult, but everybody, down to Lobelia and Otho, has now sent the numbers of their stores.

Bilbo isn’t quite certain if they’re all true, though. He knows that most families would rather put down a little less on the paper so they have a reserve. But as the total does look promising, he is not faulting them.

Outside, the wolves howl again, closer this time.

A shudder runs down his spine.  As long as everybody remains inside, nothing will happen. Still, knowing that leaving your home may result in a painful death makes Bilbo’s insides twist.

Memories of the battle awake like old wounds, but he pushes them  to the back of his mind and turns back to his preparations. He also received the numbers from his tenants and since some of them are not associated with any of the major Shire clans, he’ll figure them into his own calculation.

* * *

 

The next morning, a bounder knocks on Bilbo’s door before Elevenses.

“Master Baggins,” the lad greets, inclining his head. Bilbo doesn’t recognize him, but from his looks he might be one of the South Farthing Proudfeet boys, or a distant relation. He’s pale, his cheeks reddened by the sharp wind blowing outside.

“Come in, come in,” Bilbo jovially invites him, although he also knows that seeing a bounder in Hobbiton will easily cause fear among his neighbors. “What brings you here?”

The lad sighs. “There was an attack last night. The old mill on the North Moor was attacked.”

Bilbo feels cold abruptly. “The miller?”

“He, his wife and their two oldest sons are dead. The four younger siblings, they’d already sent ahead to relatives in Dwaling, so they survived,” the lad tells Bilbo.

Those poor souls, Bilbo thinks, and immediately recalls Frodo’s drawn expression at his parents’ funeral. He hasn’t seen the lad since, and wonders now how he is faring.

“Wolves?” Bilbo asks, wondering if they got into the mill, or if the farmer had gone out.

The lad shakes his head. “We are not certain, Master Baggins. I have not been there, I only got the message earlier. But from what I heard, the door to the mill had been forced open – they say it might have been orcs.”

“Orcs?” Bilbo echoes, shocked. His blood freezes in his veins. Orcs in the Shire – his mind summons the memory of Azog standing on Ravenhill, commanding his footsoldiers. The many, many, malformed creatures fighting without regard for their own lives –

Orcs in the Shire would cause a  _ bloodbath _ .

“It’s not certain,” the lad says immediately, shifting uncomfortably on his feet. “They only said it looked like it. Could have been bandits, too.”

Bilbo swallows. Could have been, indeed. “Who made the assessment?”

“Shirriff Cotton did.”

Cotton  would know what he is dealing with, Bilbo thinks. To the young messenger, he forces a smile. “Thank you very much for telling me. I will inform the Thain.”

Who may, for the first time in a century, have to make a binding decision for all hobbits in the Shire. If there are truly orcs crossing their borders, no one is safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm curious what you think, so feel free to drop me a line either here or over on [tumblr](www.paranoidfridge.tumblr.com).


	3. Orcs in Buckland

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo agrees to carry a message to Buckland. But once he arrives there, he finds Frodo is missing and night is falling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter sees quite a bit of violence at the end.
> 
> Once again, this chapter wouldn't be where it is without the support of [Seaweedredandbrown](http://seaweedredandbrown.tumblr.com/), [DraloreShima](https://hobbitystmarymorstan.tumblr.com/) and [ruto](http://rutobuka2.tumblr.com). And darling [catofcream](http://catofcream.tumblr.com) posted [amazing artwork](http://catofcream.tumblr.com/post/144420603989/amidst-the-winds-of-winter-chapter-1-by) for the first chapter over on tumblr! Go and take a look - it's gorgeous! 
> 
> MORE ART! [Teaxdragon](http://teaxdragon.tumblr.com) posted a stunning story poster - [featuring Bilbo in the snow](http://teaxdragon.tumblr.com/post/144674272902)! And [cat](http://catofcream.tumblr.com) drew Frodo and Bilbo together - [a scene from the end of this chapter](http://catofcream.tumblr.com/post/144701351089/amidst-the-winds-of-winter-by)!

Wolves prowling the rolling hills and the outskirts of their villages. The North Moor miller killed. Orcs may have crossed the Shire’s borders.

After those frightening news, Bilbo skips Elevenses, heading out of the settlement instead. He will need  to borrow a pony if he wishes to inform the Thain - if there are truly orcs in the Shire, just hiding in their homes will not save them.

Snow crunches under his feet as he makes his way to the Muirwood family farm.Bimbras Muirwood looks rather alarmed at Bilbo’s appearance. He is wearing the thick, fur-covered cloak the dwarves sent him, as it is warm and hides the sword and the mithril mail from view. 

“Is something the matter?” he inquires as he hands Bilbo the reins of a pony that doesn’t look all that happy about having to leave the warm stable.

Bilbo gulps and casts a wary look at the overcast sky. 

“That is what I am going to find out,” he replies, trying not show his own disquiet, and tells himself it is better not to cause a panic. Even if orcs have crossed the Brandywine up in the north, Hobbiton is at least a day’s ride from Dwaling, and the North Moors lie even further away. No orc will reach Hobbiton on this night.

The night after, however, may be a different matter.

But before that, the Thain needs to know.

* * *

Bilbo reaches Tuckborough just before tea time.

Adamanta Took greets him with a hug -  and a loud scolding. “What were you thinking, traveling so far in this weather? It’s already dusk, what if you’d taken any longer?”

Bilbo smiles at his grandmother as brightly as he can. “But I made it,” he says, leaning down to return her embrace. He might pretend to be confident, but his heart is still pounding and he is glad Sting remained untouched underneath his travel cloak.

She shakes her head and turns to hustle Bilbo into a well-lit and well-warmed dining room. “Well, but you’re frozen stiff. We’ve got some left-overs from supper, and dinner will be done later.”

“Thank you,” Bilbo replies, carefully unwrapping layer after layer until only his shirt and waistcoat remain,  with the mithril shirt underneath. “Can I get myself a cup of tea?”

“Yes, yes, I told you to make yourself at home,” comes the reply from the kitchen next door. Bilbo flexes his frozen fingers. They’re stark white and it will take a while for them to regain any feeling, but at least his toes are still warm.

“Where is everybody?” Bilbo asks as he wanders into the kitchen. Several large pots sit on the stove, cooking slowly.

“Your grandfather’s study,” she says. “A runner came by earlier. We heard about the poor miller.” So they already know, Bilbo thinks and wonders if he rode all this way for nothing. She shakes her head, and perhaps senses Bilbo’s thoughts. 

“It’s good you came,” she pats Bilbo’s shoulder. “It’s high time we made preparations.”

* * *

“Bilbo!” Fortinbras Took exclaims when Bilbo enters the study, stepping forward to draw him into a hug. “How good to see you!”

Bilbo is momentarily overwhelmed by his uncle’s bulk, though soon he catches a soft conversation in the background. When Fortinbras lets go of him, Bilbo finds himself face to face with three unknown dwarves. Their leader, clad in a finely decorated leather tunic, bows deeply.

“Master Baggins,” he greets solemnly. “Much have we heard of your deeds and much does my kind owe to you. It is an honour to finally meet you.”

Blood creeps up Bilbo’s neck as he feels his relatives’ gazes all swivel to rest upon him, probably recalling the rumors of his adventure. He’d never explained exactly who those dwarves he had left with had been - Hobbiton had been scandalized enough without knowing these details and now isn’t exactly the time to discuss these things.

“It is, ahhh, a pleasure to meet you as well, Master?” Bilbo replies while somebody shuts the door behind him. It’s quite warm inside the study due to both the number of persons present and the fire crackling merrily in the fireplace and casting all in a warm orange glow.

“Gerlin,” the dwarf replies. “Son of Beril. Lady Dis sent us from Ered Luin to help in this time of need.” 

“But how are the Blue Mountains faring?” the Thain interrupts having made his way over to Bilbo and the dwarves. “During the Fell Winter, I heard, they -”

“We find ourselves in a far more auspicious situation since Erebor was reclaimed,” Gerlin answers smoothly, inclining his head into the Thain’s direction. “Not in the least due our trade with the Shire. So, this winter, Lady Dis sent us to help.”

The low conversations around them now have gone silent. Every hobbit here is curious what brought dwarves to this meeting - and what their presence may mean. 

“In that case, your presence is most welcome, and we are fortunate to have such generous neighbors,” the Thain easily returns. Bilbo exhales silently in relief - usually,the Shire is not that welcoming of outsiders. 

The atmosphere in the room relaxes significantly. His grandmother begins to direct people over to chairs to sit down, and the Thain himself steers the little group of dwarves and Bilbo toward his favorite armchair - a worn, off-green thing that Bilbo knows is far more comfortable than it looks.

“I believe you have already made the acquaintance of our bounders?” Gerontius inquires as he sits down. The dwarves follow his example, sitting awkwardly on wooden chairs carried over from the kitchen. 

“We have, indeed,” Gerlin replies, his small smile visible underneath his massive beard, as his two companions nod along. “Very resourceful folks, I believe.”

The Thain chuckles at the assessment, and then his expression grows worried again. He has aged since Bilbo last saw him - already this winter is leaving its mark.  “We are no fighters, Master dwarf, so we have to make do with what we have.”

Bilbo nods along in silent agreement. 

“Here is the map you asked for!” Dudo Baggins calls as he waddles over to them, carrying several rolls of frayed parchment. “Oh, hello Bilbo!” he greets, as he drops his load onto the table. 

Gerontius skillfully pulls one large map from the pile and unrolls it for everyone to see. “As you can see,” he explains to the dwarves and the hobbits. “The Shire is in an opportune location. The Brandywine protects us to the north and the east, while the downs provide a barrier to the south. And the west has been safe for centuries.”

Bilbo follows the outlines of unfamiliar paths. To the west lie the Grey Havens - a small yet important elven settlement - and the roads leading there will naturally be well-protected. Dwarfs have settled in the southern parts of Ered Luin as well, providing additional shielding from any intruders looking to cross that way. 

“And while the Brandywine is our protection in the warmer months; this protection fails once the river freezes,” the Thain explains. “During the Fell Winter, the Brandywine froze and wolves crossed the river. It was a disaster.”

Gerlin studies the map attentively, and one of the other dwarves whispers something in Khuzdul. “Along the eastern road, the river seems to be fairly well settled. Who lives there?”

“Mostly hobbits,” Fortinbras answers, leaning in over Bilbo’s shoulder. “While Buckland is theoretically not part of the Shire, we’re all related. I wonder, did we receive word from them? What will they be doing?” 

He glances to Gerontius, who frowns in response. “Gorbadoc let us know that they’re doing what they can to keep the river open and free of ice.”

But once winter has Buckland fully in its grasp, that may not be enough. Gerlin looks at the map again, appearing more and more worried.  Facing the map in all its factual clarity, Bilbo sees how oddly unprotected Buckland sits between the river and the Old Forest. 

“Can they evacuate?” Gerlin asks heavily.

It echoes through the room like a clap of thunder. Dudo gasps. “Evacuate Buckland?”

Somebody lets out an hysterical laughter which earns them a short glare from the Thain. “That would be… unprecedented.”

But it might save lives, Bilbo realizes.

“The Old Forest usually provides a degree of protection to Buckland,” Bilbo explains to the confused dwarf. “It is nearly impassable, except along a hidden path - any other traveler will have to take the East Road.”

“And the downs beyond will do away with whoever makes it through the forest,” Fortinbras cheerfully adds. 

The dwarf blinks. 

“Graves. Very old graves, of wizards and witches that have been buried there a long time ago,” Fortinbras continues (and Bilbo suddenly recalls how fond his uncle had been of telling horror stories to excitable hobbit children). “Though they have never found rest, and nowadays, when the sun sets and the fog rises from the downs, they will rise as well and hunt down those that dared to trespass.”

Gerlin appears torn between disbelief and concern, while the Thain keeps his eyes fixed on the map. Bilbo clears his throat. “Those graves date from when Angmar ruled these lands.”

The dwarf blinks. “I see,” he states, paling. 

“It is usually a very solid protection,” Bilbo adds, recalling the Fell Winter. “But in a winter as harsh as this, the creatures living in the forest may be driven outside. It happened the last time.”

The Thain looks up at the foreboding tone in Bilbo’s voice. 

“Do you think that will happen, Bilbo?” Dudo inquires, shaken. “I thought the wolves came from the north.”

“This time,” Adamanta interrupts coolly as she enters the room. “During the Fell Winter, they came from the forest. And hunger will drive them over the river before long again.”

A shiver runs down Bilbo’s spine. 

Gerlin frowns. “I believe that, in cooperation with the bounders, we have enough warriors to set up a defense along the eastern part of the river. Though we cannot protect the Buckland area.”

Keeping the eastern stretch of the Brandywine safe would already be impressive, Bilbo thinks. 

“If the winter continues like this, they will have to evacuate,” Adamanta says as she sinks into her chair which Dudo has dutifully pulled over. “Gorbadoc is no fool. He knows that. And the earlier they get on with it, the easier it will be.”

The Thain merely nods, while Dudo watches with wide eyes.

“The Brandybucks can help defending the river. They know those lands better than anybody, and if I’m not wrong there may still be a trap or two hidden beneath the soil of Buckland.”

“A trap?” Fortinbras repeats. Bilbo, too, feels confusion rising. There are defensive traps around the Shire?

“Yes, some of them predate even old Brandaboras,” Gerontius adds with a chuckle. “Though I’m afraid I don’t know all the details.”

Gerlin delicately clears his throat. “This kind of information might be quite central to developing a defensive strategy.”

“He’ll let you know; we just need to have somebody go and ask,” Adamanta assures the dwarves. 

“Though he won’t tell just anyone,” Fortinbras cautions. 

Bilbo shrugs. “I could go.”

“You?” Dudo exclaims, and Adamanta frowns as well. “You only just got here.”

“I have a pony,” Bilbo replies. “I can make the trip in a day.” And there won’t be any hassle about sharing family secrets. However, Bilbo inquiring about Mirabella Brandybuck’s peach pie recipe is more likely to cause an eclat than asking for ancient defensive traps. 

The Thain exhales. “It would certainly make things easier.”

“Allow us to escort you,” Gerlin immediately offers. “We have brought our own mounts, and will have two dwarves ready by morning.”

Bilbo flusters under the inquisitive gazes of his family members. “No, no, I’ll be fine.”

Gerlin looks as if he is about to protest, so Bilbo decides it is time for their discussion to return to its original topic. “Anyway, once we have the east protected, the north will pose the highest risk.”

Looking back at the map, Fortinbras nods. “The Northern Moor is sparsely settled. There aren’t enough hobbits there to keep an eye on the river.”

“It’s quite wide there so it normally doesn’t freeze,” Dudo adds for the dwarves. 

“Are there, by chance, any hidden traps set there?” Gerlin inquires, contemplatively scratching at his bearded chin. Unease rises in Bilbo’s chest as he glances at the map - the North Moor is large, about as large as Buckland, and barely settled. 

Gerontius frowns, and Adamanta leans forward. “There may be something left. They used to have fire traps up there, did they not?”

“Fire traps?” Dudo echoes, and Bilbo feels as surprised as his cousin. 

Adamanta gives them a grim smile. “I only know them from stories. But apparently, when the goblins came, the hobbits filled trenches with dried leaves and tinder. Then they covered it all with a thin layer of earth. Those trenches crisscrossed all over the north - and when the signal came the hobbits knew to withdraw, while one of them dropped a lit match atop the dried leaves at a safe distance.”

Bilbo shudders, Fortinbras stares at his mother in fright. Adamanta merely regards them evenly. “That night nearly all the goblins burned.”

A heavy silence fills the air, for a long moment. Even the dwarves look impressed, Bilbo thinks. 

“That is why those lands up there are infertile?” Dudo eventually asks, breaking the silence.

Gerontius gives a small nod, and Bilbo stares at the map. Hobbits are no warriors, no. They never have been. But they have known how to defend their lands - he and his generation merely seem to have forgotten this. 

“Those sound like highly efficient traps,” Gerlin agrees, and from the grey pallor of his compatriots Bilbo guesses the three dwarves are currently reassessing their impressions of hobbits. “If we could have more information about those, I believe that would help us set up a defense plan.”

Gerontius nods. “Yes, I believe it’s time to reinstall the traps. I’ll send a runner up north, and then ask for the other families to share whatever they remember.”

* * *

Bilbo is about to retire for the evening when Adamanta slips into his room after a short knock, bearing a tray with a steaming cup of tea. “You needn’t go to Buckland tomorrow if you don’t want to,” she says as she sets the tray down. “One of the runners can carry the message just as easily.”

Bilbo sighs and nods. “I know. But I’d rather go myself.”

“I know,” Adamanta agrees. “And they’ll be glad to see you. Tell Asphodel she’s very welcome in Tuckborough, though I suppose young Frodo wouldn’t mind staying at Bag End.” 

Bilbo, who hasn’t yet even thought about what an evacuation of Buckland might entail, flinches. “I guess they could stay there.” 

Adamanta smiles. “They will work something out. But now, those dwarves, they do seem quite respectful of you. Yet they were not the ones you went on your adventure with.”

Bilbo recalls Adamanta looking at the figurines back at his birthday, which now feels like a lifetime ago.

“No, not them.”

“One of your dwarves, I think Frodo called him a King,” Adamanta continues. “He was one, wasn’t he?”

Bilbo remembers Thorin proudly facing Azog back on the ice a long, long time ago. He’d looked every inch a legendary King then (and completely out of Bilbo’s league). “He is,” he tells his grandmother. 

“Hmm, of course that would complicate things,” Adamanta chuckles. “But I think he must be quite fond of you - to move an allied kingdom to send soldiers to protect the home of a friend.”

Bilbo’s heart leaps. Thorin - 

“Whereas we struggle to protect our own relatives,” Adamanta continues brightly. “He managed to arrange a protective measure on such short notice, while we still simply worry for each other. To do all this to see you safe - I think he must care a lot for you.”

Care for him. Thorin.

“You go and sleep tight; you have a long day ahead of you tomorrow,” his grandmother says as she rises and leaves the room, a smile on her lips. 

Bilbo’s thoughts are spinning. 

Thorin is a good friend, naturally. He has written so; Bilbo has written so. Of course they worry for each other.

Of course.

But maybe... maybe his grandmother is right. Maybe this traitorous heart of his is right to warm up this way. 

* * *

The sun hasn’t quite risen yet when Bilbo leaves the warmth of his grandparents’ Tuckborough home. Admanta hugs him once in the doorway, ruffles his hair and tells him to take care.

“Ride quickly,” his grandfather advises while Bilbo climbs onto the pony, “Stop in Frogmorton if you won’t make it before nightfall.”

Bilbo looks at the dark clouds hanging deep in the sky and the snow-covered hills underneath. Everything is white except for a few leafless, black trees. A world bleached of all colors – a shudder runs down his spine. This world is as beautiful as it is deadly, and he will have to hurry to make it to Buckland before nightfall.

Determined, he turns to Gerontius and nods sharply. ”I will.”

Then, with an ease he would not have possessed before his journey with the dwarves, he turns his pony and urges it forward. Before him the road and the fields have been buried beneath a now knee-high layer of snow and the land is silent except for a few birds circling overhead.

* * *

While Bilbo urges his pony through the empty, snow-covered roads of the Shire underneath an ever darkening sky, Thorin’s group has finally reached the Misty Mountains. A sharp wind howls along the mountain peaks, blowing plumes of snow skyward. 

“The upper passes are out of question,” Dwalin comments with a snort while they stop for a short break. Thorin has helped himself to a piece of dried meat, though he pays no mind to its taste. Worries churn in his stomach: what if the mountains are impassable? What if crossing the mountains takes too long?

What if they are not in time?

“Let’s hope we don’t get caught by Stone Giants again,” Kili says, looking as troubled as Thorin feels. Tauriel walks up to his side - she has proven a valuable addition to their group. Her knowledge of the forest shortened their stay in Mirkwood, and in a quiet moment she assured Thorin that Thranduil will make good on his promise.

“The Giants, I believe, will have gone to sleep,” she is saying now, eyeing the mountains with her brow creased. “They will rest for the winter. But the snow worries me.”

“The lower pass is prone to avalanches,” Himril cautions. 

“And the higher pass even more so,” Dwalin counters with a huff. “Unless we go all the way south to the Gap of Rohan, this is our road.” 

A few dwarves grumble at the prospect, and from the corner of his eye Thorin catches a grin spread across Dwalin’s face. “Lads,” he says, almost cheerful, “Where is your sense of adventure? Look at that, you don’t only get to fight the forces of nature, but maybe some goblins or orcs in addition!” 

The good-natured grumbling rises in volume. Kili starts laughing and with a shake of his head turns to them. “At least this time there’s no dragon awaiting at the end of the journey.”

Indeed, Thorin thinks, momentarily amused, compared to their original venture this one appears downright reasonable. 

A cold gust of wind blowing down from the mountain tugs at his hair and his thoughts sober once more. Reasonable, indeed. But they do not know what awaits at the end of the road. No more birds have reached them - it is likely Ered Luin and the Shire have been cut off by now. 

What if what awaits them at the end of the road is worse than a dragon?

The notion tugs painfully at Thorin’s heart. No, he tells himself, he must have faith. For all that Bilbo is a small hobbit, he is also resourceful, brave, and capable. In that Thorin must believe lest his nightmares overwhelm him.

“If everyone is ready,” he says, forcing the dark thoughts aside. “Let us move on.”

* * *

“Bilbo, oh, Bilbo,” his cousin Asphodel Brandybuck greets the moment Bilbo comes into sight. Her hair is frazzled, and her eyes are red-rimmed.

“What is it?” he asks, eyeing the darkening sky with unease.

“It’s Frodo,” she bursts out, “One of the boys said something and he ran off, and, dear me, we didn’t even notice until dinner. None of the boys know where he could’ve gone. And it’ll be dark soon.”

Bilbo’s blood runs cold. Frodo – of all the children who would have gone off that day, Frodo.

She frets, eyes brimming with unshed tears. “What if the boy’s still out there? He took his coat, but it’s so cold, and what if he –“

“Do you know what direction he ran off into?” he interrupts. She turns to him, eyes wide and fearful. “No, and Rufus and Rori already checked the garden and the places nearby, and I don’t know where the boy could have gone. Oh, had I only asked after him sooner, I should never have let him out of my sight, oh –“

“Mom, we’ll go and look for him.”

Bilbo and Asphodel turn around to look at the two small hobbits that have emerged from the smial. Both are wrapped in various layers of fabric, and while the older looks at them with determination, his younger brother sobs openly.

“I didn’t mean it,” he stammers, “I didn’t mean to make Frodo upset, I know we’re not supposed to mention his parents, I just –“

“We’ll go and look for him,” the older one insists, “We’ll bring him back, don’t worry.”

Bilbo can see his cousin pulling herself together. “The only thing you two will do is go back to your room. We don’t need more children getting lost tonight. I’ll speak to you once we found your cousin.” 

“But you’ll find him, won’t you?” the older asks, uneasy.

His mother nods energetically and then points to Bilbo. “Look, your uncle Bilbo is here. He will help us search for Frodo. We’ll find him quickly enough. Go inside, you two, before you catch a cold.”

With one last weary glance, the two shuffle off again. Asphodel’s composition seeps away, and she turns beseeching eyes to Bilbo. “You’ll help us look, won’t you? I know you traveled far, and are probably tired, and I really shouldn’t be bothering you with this, but –“

“I’ll help,” Bilbo cuts in easily, because he needn’t think about this decision, “Have you checked the riverbank?”

* * *

Bilbo curses the snow as he makes his way toward the Brandywine. Every step becomes cumbersome in snow that nearly reaches his knees in places, but he preserves. In the remaining bit of daylight, the thin layer of ice covering the river glows bright and beautiful, though the water beneath appears black and dreadful. A shiver runs down Bilbo’s spine, and he shakes off his growing unease.

At the Buckland Ferry, the Brandywine had carried little ice. To see so much just a few miles downstream is worrying.

“Frodo,” he calls, his breath fogging in the cool air, “Frodo!”

The snow-covered world around him remains utterly silent. He huffs and continues along the riverbank, keeping a wary eye on the dark, leafless trees of the Old Forest on his right. 

Maybe the lad wandered all the way to the next settlement and found shelter there. Bilbo hopes so as the cold begins to creep even through his warm, dwarven-made coat. He shivers, casting a look back.

The snow lies undisturbed except for his own footsteps. It is unlikely he missed anything - it hasn't snowed today; and even a fauntling as small as Frodo would have left traces. Before him, the snow lies undisturbed as well, and perhaps Bilbo erred and Frodo went elsewhere.

He will walk at least until the next settlement to check. If Frodo went elsewhere and Rorimac or one of the others has already found him, all the better. But Bilbo is not going to risk leaving his young cousin out here on the account of his own cold feet. After all, he has a nice warm coat, a mithril shirt, and an elvish blade at his disposal. He’s going to be fine.  

So he trudges on, despite the fading light. The shadows of the Old Forest lengthen and grow darker while night falls. Bilbo keeps an eye on the river - the ice patches are larger here, and from what he heard he is not far from the spot where Primula and Drogo drowned. 

A shudder runs down his spine. The black water runs quietly here, as if to veil its dangers. 

A dark shape crouched at the trunk of a leafless willow catches his attention. Bilbo blinks to make certain the dim light is not playing tricks on his mind - but then the shape stirs and turns to him.

“Uncle Bilbo?” Frodo asks, sounding surprised.

“Frodo!” Bilbo exclaims, hurrying forward. Has the child been sitting here all this time? Is he hurt? Cold? 

“Are you alright? Asphodel and Milo are besides themselves with worry! Do you have any idea what time it is?” Bilbo bursts out as Frodo slowly climbs to his feet.

His face is pale, though no more so than usual as of late, and Bilbo realises with relief that he is wearing a warm coat, a hat, and mittens. 

“Oh, is it this late already?” Frodo asks, glancing at the sky with a sense of surprise. “I didn't even notice…”

Bilbo exhales loudly as relief floods his veins.

“I'm sorry,” Frodo continues, wide-eyed. “I just, I came down here to think. I didn't notice that it got so dark.”

From any other hobbit, Bilbo would have doubted this statement. But between the significance of this spot and what he knows of the quarrel with the other children, it is not hard to believe that  Frodo lost track of time. (Bilbo knows he tends to do so himself, if he dwells on his memories for too long).

[“It's quite fine,” Bilbo assures Frodo, before drawing  him into a short, warm hug in an effort to restore some warmth into the small body. “We were getting a bit worried, but once we get home everything will be quite alright.”](http://catofcream.tumblr.com/post/134886179634/this-is-a-sort-of-wip-that-ill-never-finish-for)

They'll all be glad to have Frodo back in good health. With some luck, the child will be spared a cold as well.

“They won't be angry?” Frodo asks, worriedly gnawing on his lower lip though he takes Bilbo’s hand without protest. 

“Not at all,” Bilbo promises. “Your uncle may have something to say about not wandering out on your own this late, but he certainly won't be angry.”

“I know I'm not supposed to,” Frodo agrees quietly as they turn back and start the march home. “I wanted to get back before dark. Everybody's been talking about it being dangerous, and I don't like it.”

“And you're right not to like it,” Bilbo agrees, proud that Frodo is such a sensible lad after all. “And now you know how easy it can be to lose track of time. But tell me, what have you and Milo been playing lately?”

Frodo happily regards him with an elaborate tale of adventures that involve elves, dragons, horses, and a fair number of creatures Bilbo has never heard of, but his young cousin’s enthusiasm is enough to brighten the mood, despite the dark and the cold.

Frodo just has fallen silent and Bilbo is contemplating what to ask him next as they crest a small hill and catch sight of three figures moving in the snow below. At first, Bilbo thinks the dark shapes are hobbits and is about to call out. Then one straightens.

“Did you hear that?” It hisses in a scratchy, distorted voice.

Far too tall for a hobbit. And even in the dim light, Bilbo recognises the glint of a dulled blade in its hand.

Orcs.

His blood runs cold. There are orcs in Buckland!

Frodo stirs and Bilbo remembers in the very last moment to drag them both down and out of sight. [He gestures to Frodo to be silent, and the boy goes stark white.](http://catofcream.tumblr.com/post/144701351089/amidst-the-winds-of-winter-by)

Orcs in Buckland, Bilbo's frazzled brain repeats in growing panic. They need to send a warning! Next to Bilbo, Frodo shifts nervously, and Bilbo abruptly realizes that he needs to get them both out of here. As far away as possible. 

Yet he can hear those three orcs rummage in the snow, getting closer and closer. What they are looking for, Bilbo doesn’t know. But they don’t have the time to find out. With his heart hammering in his throat, Bilbo quietly draws Frodo to his feet, making sure they both keep their heads low and out of sight. 

Slowly, silent step by silent step, he leads them back down the hill as a cold sweat begins to bead on his face. To their right lies the river, dark and deadly. The next settlement is too far, and Bilbo’s gaze invariably wanders to the dark, foreboding forest on their left.

It’s their only chance, Bilbo tells himself as he gently tugs Frodo into the new direction. The child hesitates, digs in his feet. Bilbo purses his lip, nods toward the hill behind which they can hear the orcs laugh. He hopes Frodo will understand his silent explanation. 

Warily, the child follows Bilbo’s lead. 

The ground rises toward the first trees, though luckily not enough to bring them in sight of the orcs. They have not left - Bilbo can still hear them chattering in their grating mix of Dark tongue and Westron. Frodo shivers next to him, his face nearly as white as the snow. He needs to be out of this situation most of all.

Bilbo presses his hand reassuringly and leads them past the treeline. Within the forest, everything is darker still. The world feels suffocating - between the snow and the trees, it seems light and sound are swallowed until Bilbo only hears his own heart pounding, and their uneven breathing. 

Carefully he nudges Frodo forward. They need to be utterly silent now. The trees shield them from view - but orcs, Bilbo knows, do not necessarily rely on their eyes.

Step by step, they inch forward. Over the hilltop and back down, Bilbo tries his best to radiate confidence, despite the orcish laughter carrying over toward them. Frodo bites his lower lip until it bleeds, and Bilbo wishes he could say something to reassure him, that he could tell Frodo that all will be alright.

“Do you smell that?” An orc’s voice cuts through the icy air like a blade.

The other orcs mutter something, but then that sharp, terrible voice comes again. “Blood. I smell blood. There must be something here, boys.”

Laughter rises. Bilbo’s heart sinks. He feels dizzy, but knows he cannot falter now, not when Frodo relies on him. 

Trying to gather his wits, Bilbo drags Frodo behind a sturdy tree and out of sight. They won’t be able to outrun the orcs, not even if they head deeper into the forest. And Bilbo doubts he can fight them off and protect Frodo at the same time. 

They must split.

[“Frodo,” Bilbo whispers, and takes the small shaking body by the shoulders. “I’m going to give you a small trinket – a ring. If you put it on, it will turn you invisible. Understand?”](http://rutobuka2.tumblr.com/post/145562105119/my-illustrations-for-paranoidfridges-amidst-the)

He gains a shaky nod in return.

“Where are they?” one of the orcs shouts.

“They can’t have gotten far,” another crows back, “They must still be around. I smell their blood!”

Bilbo bites down on his lower lip. They’re getting closer. “I want you to put on the ring and run,” he tells Frodo quietly, “I’ll distract them and you make straight for Buckland Hall. Understood?”

Frodo snivels, but nods. “But you –“

“I’ll follow right behind you,” Bilbo promises.

“There’s footsteps over here,” one of the orcs shouts, “This way!”

Bilbo’s heart sinks. They’re out of time.

He fumbles for the small golden band in his pocket and presses it to Frodo. Small hobbit fingers clench around it and Frodo turns wide, teary eyes to him. “You –“

“Run, Frodo,” Bilbo says, and slips from their hiding place. His eyes have gotten used to the dim light in the forest, and with the moon up he can see a bit. The three orcs stop, spotting him immediately.

“See there,” one croaks, “There it is.”

Bilbo takes a deep breath and draws Sting, forcing himself forward. “Here I am,” he proclaims, hoping he makes enough noise to cover Frodo’s escape. “And if you don’t leave these lands, I’ll kill you.”

The orcs break out in laughter.

Bilbo hopes Frodo is gone by now. [He doesn’t wait for the orcs to finish laughing – instead he launches himself forward, and the snow swallows every sound.](https://hobbitystmarymorstan.tumblr.com/post/144843682640/for-paranoidfridge-s-amidst-the-winds-of)

The first orc notices him far too late. He’s thrown back his head in laughter, and only the menacing hiss of a descending blade makes him open his eyes and look down – but in that moment Sting pierces the soft flesh of his throat, and he gurgles. Black blood spurts forward, his hands twitch, but never even manage to lift his weapon. Bilbo pulls back Sting and the orc falls into the snow with a thud.

“Kill him!” the other orc roars, and Bilbo has a moment to breathe, before he has to duck from a rusty, curved orc blade.

“You maggot,” the orc curses, swinging wildly after him and Bilbo stumbles back, back, back, “I’ll kill you! I’ll make you wish you were dead! I’ll rip out your entrails and eat them while you watch!”

Bilbo dodges and dodges, breath coming in short, hard gasps. The orc is fast, too fast for Bilbo to slip underneath his guard, and there’s nothing but trees around them. He dances behind one, and wood splinters as an orc blade hits the tree.

A branch cuts across Bilbo’s cheek, but he barely notices the burn over the ache in his lungs. Sweat covering his body, he brings up Sting at the very last moment to parry a strike. Bilbo stumbles back from the force of the blow  and found himself with his back against a tree, unable to retreat further.

The orc smiles terrifically, Bilbo feels pinned.

Think Bilbo, think, he tells himself, and when the orc descends he dives to the ground and rolls away. The blade rushes past his head, cutting off a few hairs before it buries itself in the tree. The orc howls in frustration, and Bilbo’s blade slashes it across the legs.

The orc screams as its knees buckle.

It hits the ground hard, Bilbo remembers to scramble away too late, and a blunt orc blade bites deep into his leg. White, hot pain races through him, and he sees the blade still buried in the soft flesh of his upper leg, and kicks panickedly with his free limb. The orcs shout something in that harsh language of theirs and Bilbo swings Sting wildly into its general direction. It meets flesh and with a pained squeak the orc flinches backwards, pulling its blade from the wound. Black blood splatters the snow-covered ground and Bilbo’s clothes; red blood flows from his own injury.

Dizzily the hobbit scrambles to his feet, breathing hard. He watches the orc twitch for a moment before he recalls the third orc...

… And barely manages to dodge an axe aimed for his head. The orc rages at him in his foul language, spittle dripping from his mouth and advances upon Bilbo, weapon held high. The hobbit feints left and then dodges right, his injured leg almost buckling underneath him, but the orc follows, eyes glinting with fury.

Snow crunches under Bilbo’s feet, as he limps away and his own panting breath echoes in his head. Around them the world has fallen silent; the nightly forest eerily quiet. He looks right and left, just catches a movement from the corner of his eye. He brings up Sting, and the strike of metal on metal echoes loudly through the night.

Bilbo catches himself on a tree, then twists around it, then another. The trees stand closer together here, maybe he can slip away. He sucks in a sharp lungful of cold air, ignores the twinge in his body and slumps against a tree. His heart pounds frantically, echoing the burning throbbing in his leg, and perhaps this is why he doesn’t hear the orc coming behind him.

Wood explodes and the blade pierces the small tree Bilbo is leaning against, sliding through the wood and hitting Bilbo’s back with a mighty blow. All air flees his lungs, the mithril rings are driven painfully against his skin. But they hold and instead of driving into Bilbo’s back and through his ribs, Bilbo flies forward, and lands face first in the snow.

The orc curses, his blade stuck deeply in the tree, and Bilbo frantically pushes himself up, thinking that now is his time, now he needs to strike.

Bilbo stumbles to his feet, Sting slippery in his hands covered in sweat and blood covered, breathing harshly. The Orc backs away - and then turns and runs. Three steps and it has disappeared into the thick bushes of the forest, snow crunching along its path.

Bilbo stares at the black blood tainting the snow. The sweat on his back begins to cool, reminding him of the sharply dropping temperatures. He is far too exhausted to give chase - the cut on his leg burns fiercely and his knees are shaking.

He needs to see if Frodo made it back alright, his mind reminds him. And warn the hobbits that there are orcs in Buckland.

Cold fear runs down Bilbo's spine.

Those orcs could have been random scavengers. But orcs had followed the wolves during the Fell Winter, too. And unlike wolves, orcs were not so easily discouraged by a locked door.

If there should be more orcs...

Bilbo gulps and reaches up to pull the orc's blade from the tree. He ooks at the two dead bodies, their dark outlines contrasting against the snow. The forest or its inhabitants may claim them during the night -

A gust of wind stirs the branches. Bilbo shivers, but nothing else stirs.

So he turns around and begins the trek back to Buckland Hall.

Every step soon feels like an act of strength. The snow slows him down, making his toes go numb and soaking through the legs of his trousers. When he turns to look back, he sees droplets of blood - black in the dim light - marking his path. And the cut on his leg throbs in response.

Finally, he reaches the river and spies the first twinkling lanterns on the far side. Its surface now is nearly completely covered by glinting ice. Even in this moonless, cloudy night, it has taken on an ominous black shine.

Bilbo limps along the river bank - the snow has well and truly obscured the roads. He doesn't know for how long he walks - it feels like an eternity - before he spies the distant light of a lantern on this side of the river.

The light is moving, he notices belatedly.

Is it coming closer - or are his sense failing him? The injury no longer burns, but he barely feels most of his body.

There are figures moving in the snow. Small and round, unlike orcs, they wander through the snow, waving their lanterns.

"-bo!"

"Bilbo! Bilbo, where are you?"

Bilbo's tired body lurches forward, and he finds himself mobilizing his last reserves to lift his arm and wave back. "Here, I'm over here!"

His throat aches, his voice is hoarse, but it carries over the snowy landscape, and the four hobbits turn into his direction.

"Bilbo!" His cousin shouts and takes off running.

He doesn’t remember falling to his knees. But when his eyes focus next he is looking up at Asphodel while Rorimac is holding him upright.

"Oh dear, Bilbo, are you alright? Are you injured? Frodo told us, and he was so upset, and-"

"Cousin, were there orcs?" Asphodel interrupts, her eyes looking from the blades Bilbo holds to the trail he left in the snow.

Bilbo nods, lifts a little higher the Orc blade he took from his opponents. The crude steel shines ominously in the night.

"Three," he gasps out. "I got two, but the third got away. Is Frodo alright?"

"He's fine cousin, frightened but fine," he is immediately reassured. The words hit him hard enough to make his knees buckle and if not for Rorimac's quick reaction Bilbo would have fallen into the snow.

"Bilbo, Bilbo," somebody is calling his name from far away. The world distorts momentarily, then clears again to reveal Asphodel's worried expression. "Bilbo, are you alright?"

"Look at his leg," somebody else advises, and Bilbo is shifted. Somebody hisses, and then Asphodel forces his face up.

"Bilbo, can you walk?"

"Let's just carry him," Rorimac suggests, before Bilbo can answer. He can walk, he walked all the way. He walked all the way back from Erebor -

It had been snowing then too -

And when the darkness rises up to meet him, Bilbo's mind is far to the east, and the pain of leaving his friends there once more fresh in his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd be glad to hear your impressions either here or over on my [tumblr](http://paranoidfridge.tumblr.com).


	4. Evacuating Buckland

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Bilbo recovers from his encounter, the hobbits of Buckland must decide on what to do. More ill news come in from the north, while Thorin's group slowly but certainly approaches the Shire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, this chapter wouldn't be where it is without the support of [Seaweedredandbrown](http://seaweedredandbrown.tumblr.com/), [DraloreShima](https://hobbitystmarymorstan.tumblr.com/) and [ruto](http://rutobuka2.tumblr.com). And darling [catofcream](http://catofcream.tumblr.com) posted [amazing artwork](http://catofcream.tumblr.com/post/144420603989/amidst-the-winds-of-winter-chapter-1-by) for the first chapter over on tumblr! Go and take a look - it's gorgeous! 
> 
> MORE ART! [Teaxdragon](http://teaxdragon.tumblr.com) posted a stunning story poster - [featuring Bilbo in the snow](http://teaxdragon.tumblr.com/post/144674272902)! And [cat](http://catofcream.tumblr.com) drew Frodo and Bilbo together - [a scene from the end of chapter 3](http://catofcream.tumblr.com/post/144701351089/amidst-the-winds-of-winter-by)!

Bilbo wakes in an unfamiliar room with his heart heavy from strange and disquieting dreams. A steaming cup of tea sits next to his bed, and as his throat feels oddly parched he props himself up with a voiceless groan and fumbles for the mug. 

His entire body aches, though the warm tea provides sweet relief and Bilbo sets back the mug with a sigh. He can hear children giggling from behind the door and pale daylight streams in through the window. A look to the outside reveals no change from yesterday - Buckland still lies under a thick cover of snow. Tall, leafless trees stretch toward an overcast sky; the pale light of day already fading.

All looks deceptively peaceful.

As if last night never happened. As if the orcs had been a bad dream - and Bilbo wishes they were, but a throbbing heat emanating from his leg leaves no doubt to the reality of the close encounter. His entire body feels slightly too hot, sluggish, and exhausted.

A short knock on the door pulls him from his thoughts, and Bilbo looks up just in time to see Rorimac enter. His cousin carries a tray with a washbasin and fresh bandages, and nearly drops it when he realizes Bilbo is awake.

“Good to see you up, Bilbo,” Rorimac greets and sets the tray down at the bedside table. “How do you feel?”

Bilbo considers lying, but the fuzzy feeling in his head and the dull throb in his leg would make hiding the truth rather pointless. “Have you warned the others?” he asks instead. Bilbo’s memories are blurred, but he recalls holding the orc blade out to his cousin and forcing the slurred words from his lips.

“About the orcs?” Rorimac inquires as he begins to unroll a new bandage. “It’s quite likely the entire Shire knows about it by now. Buckland certainly is in uproar.”

Oh, Bilbo thinks, and exhales softly.

“What will they do?” Bilbo asks, and then remembers belatedly that he was carrying a message that brought him to Buckland in first place. “I also need to speak with the Master. Is your father in?”

“He should be around,” Rorimac replies calmly and presses Bilbo gently back against the pillows. “And he’ll look in on you later anyway. If your message is what I think it is, he already is aware that Buckland is difficult to defend.”

Bilbo sighs in relief.

“Those dwarves who showed up at the bridge this morning were quite apologetic they couldn’t defend our area,” Rorimac adds, and then grins. “They also were quite concerned for you, Bilbo. Apparently they had wanted to come with you - and were quite out of sorts when they heard you got injured.”

Blood rises to Bilbo’s face, and he looks down, busying himself with rearranging the blankets so the cut on his leg is exposed. Rorimac chuckles to himself as he begins to peel back the bandages.

“How much time has passed?” Bilbo inquires while he studies the cut in the pale daylight. It’s deep, though the corners have begun to heal. 

"A day. We cleaned out and bandaged the injury, but I’m afraid you caught a slight fever," Rorimac informs him, eyeing the wound with a frown. "It went down last night and the wound ought to heal fine."

Bilbo tilts his head as his cousin begins to wrap fresh bandages around it. "But?"

He thinks he knows. The cut on his leg feels different from the scratches on his cheek and hands.

"There is something about that wound I don't like," Rorimac confesses. "Let me know if it gives you trouble. We can still -"

"Uncle Bilbo," a new voice interrupts and a tiny hobbit slips through the half-open door. "Uncle Bilbo, are you alright?"

Frodo's voice trembles. Large blue eyes look worriedly to Bilbo and take in every little scratch and discoloration of his face.

"I will be as good as new, Frodo," Bilbo tells his young cousin and surreptitiously tugs the blanket over his legs so it hides the bandages from view.

Frodo, to his own relief, looks hale and healthy. Too pale still, but the lad always has been lately. Not a scratch on him, and that is all that Bilbo wanted when he turned to face the orcs.

“I'm so sorry!” the child exclaims and races forward with his arms wide open. Bilbo remembers to lean down at the last second to catch Frodo in a warm embrace, though a bolt of pain races up from his leg as he draws his tiny relative against himself.

“Don't worry, Frodo,” Bilbo reassures and strokes a hand through wild black curls, relishing in the warmth of the embrace. “It's all right.” 

They were, after all, incredibly lucky. 

Rorimac frowns over Frodo’s shoulder. “Just be a bit careful with your uncle Bilbo for now,” he gently reminds Frodo. “He's not up to your usual level of roughhousing.”

Frodo nods enthusiastically while he slowly detached himself from the embrace. “I will. I know auntie Asphodel said not to be a bother.” 

“You're not, scamp,” Bilbo lightly replies. “And I didn't get to ask you last time,” - mostly because he had been an unconscious dead weight who should thank Rorimac later for carrying him back - ,”But did you get back alright?” 

Frodo pales, but nods. “Yes. I wore that ring until I was right back at the door.”

“Scared us good, popping out of thin air,” Rorimac comments. 

Bilbo chuckles. “It's a handy little thing, is it not?” And he'd rather have it back, a small voice reminds him with unusual intensity. 

Frodo's eyes widen, sparkling with excitement. “Is it from your adventure? Is it a magic ring? Did you get it from the dwarves or did Gandalf give it to you?” 

“It is,” Bilbo replies with a laugh. “But nobody gave it to me.” Imagining Thorin giving him a ring makes the blood rise to his face. Remembering that Thorin gave him the mithril shirt has his ears turn red. Perhaps he truly should have stayed and given things a chance - But this is all wistful speculation. “I found it.” 

“Where? Was it in the dwarves’ mountain?” 

“Not exactly,” Bilbo returns and easily slips into his narrating voice to entertain Frodo with an edited version of what happened in the goblin tunnels. And Rorimac stays to listen as well.

* * *

The Master of Buckland, Gorbadoc Brandybuck, visits Bilbo just in time for dinner. Unlike the Thain, Gorbadoc is tall for a hobbit, and still rather young - and while this caused some misgivings when he first took over the office after his father’s death, by now he has won over all Buckland residents. 

“Bilbo,” he greets rather cheerfully, “how good to see you again. Though I do wish circumstances were a bit better. Rori tells me you’re recovering quite alright? That was a fair bit of excitement, wasn’t it?”

Bilbo wouldn’t quite call three orcs in Buckland exciting, but he knows how the sentiment is intended. “I should be quite alright soon enough.”

“That’s good to know,” Gorbadoc replies and stops himself from patting Bilbo’s knee just in time. “Dear Adamanta would have my head if anything happened to her favorite grandson. Who knows, she might still claim it.”

Bilbo is not about to contest that statement. Instead, he focuses on the message that was the original purpose of his journey. 

“I had a message from the Thain. He - well, the Shire council - were recommending you evacuate Buckland, though this is ultimately your decision, and the Thain is aware of that,” Bilbo relays. “In case you decide to evacuate, the Frogmorton mayor will help arranging shelter for those that do not have relatives able to host them.”

He takes a sip of his tea while Gorbadoc contemplates the message.

“It will be quite crowded, though,” Bilbo adds. “Most of the smaller settlements in the Shire have been evacuated as well. There is concern that the isolation may make them easier prey to wolves. And, well, orcs.”

“It’s not as if the Shire villages have particularly good defenses against orcs either,” Gorbadoc comments sharply. “But I see the point. With the dwarves supporting you, the larger Shire villages have a small chance.”

Which is better than none.

Then his face darkens. “However, larger settlements may also attract more attention. While there is safety in number against small groups of marauding orcs, the moment those band together, these settlements become death traps.”

Bilbo’s blood turns cold. “What do you mean?” he asks, foreboding crawling through his veins. “Is there any hint this may happen?”

If so, they must know. And do what they can - though Bilbo feels at this point they are already reaching their limit. Should a more powerful threat arrive - 

Gorbadoc sighs. “No, not at this time. However, this winter is already turning out very unusual. And there have been rumors about something brewing in Fornost for many, many years.”

Bilbo shivers. He has heard some of these rumors - dismissed them as gossip and superstition spilling over from Bree. But in truth: travelers have disappeared on the road. While it is known that little but a crumbling ruin has survived of that once great city, it has been years since anybody saw them.

Hobbits and Breefolk don’t travel to Fornost. They fear the downs surrounding it and the dark magic that still lingers in the ground. Usually only the rangers dare to visit the ruins every two or three years. But it has been a long time since Bilbo last heard a report from them.

Gorbadoc leans back. “Then again, those are rumors. The wolves and those small marauding bands of orcs are real, so we must do what we can to keep safe from them. I’ve already called a meeting with the family heads here tomorrow, and unless they veto it, I believe we will evacuate.”

He sighs deeply. “I know we are relying on you a good deal already, but regardless of the decision taken tomorrow, would you be willing to take in Asphodel, Rufus, Milo and Frodo? I'd rather have the children away from here; especially Frodo I believe would fare better in Hobbiton after what happened here.”

Bilbo blinks, thinks of his well-stocked pantry in which he barely has made a dent so far. “It wouldn't be a problem. Though Frodo…”

“The boy is holding up admirably, though I'm not sure if having him live so close to the Brandywine is a good idea. He still misses his parents badly.”

Something cold runs down Bilbo's spine at the implication. “He's always welcome in Bag End.” He doesn’t even have to think about saying it. Whether it is for the winter of for a longer arrangement.

Gorbadoc reaches out to pat Bilbo's hand. “It's something to think about, once this winter is over.”

* * *

Bilbo remembers the large hall of the Buckland smials from his childhood days. Rarely used except for birthday parties, it had been a favorite place for him and his cousins to play hide and seek on rainy days. While that had caused some fretting about unruly children, his uncle Gorbadoc had simply laughed and said it wasn’t much of a difference whether drunken adults or rambunctious children wrecked the room.

Today the hall bears few traces of revelry, and all hobbits present look solemn and serious. Bilbo recognizes a variety of familiar faces, and a few of the Buckland clans he regularly has business with.

“As many of you have already witnessed, this is fast becoming a winter of ill fortune,” Gorbadoc announces, his voice carrying easily to all. “The wolves you all know of; and many have perhaps heard rumors of the orcs as well.” He pauses to a moment of breathless silence. “Those are true. The miller up at the North Moor was killed, and only two nights ago a small group of orcs came through Buckland.”

Nervous whispering springs up immediately. Bilbo feels a number of eyes stray to him – words may have already carried of the skirmish in the old forest.

“Now, as spring is yet far, and the danger will likely only grow, I believe we need to consider our options.”

A tense hush falls over the gathered hobbits . Unlike the inhabitants of Hobbiton, Buckland hobbits – as far as Bilbo has known them – are more aware of the world, and tend to be less stubborn. He hopes they will decide for safety in this.

“The Thain  assured me that, should we decide to leave Buckland, every family will find shelter in the larger settlements of the Shire. While we all know that while this is likely a less than ideal arrangement for many, it will also combine our resources of firewood and food.”

Several hobbits pale, and Bilbo can see deep frowns on a number of faces. A few hushes whispers arise; likely from those already wondering what relatives to stay with. 

“Most of all, the river will provide us with a line of defense,” Gorbadoc says. “We cannot defend both sides; but one we might hold.”

Even that is not a guarantee, Bilbo thinks, and his leg throbs as if to warn him.

“What if it freezes?” Rudgar Bolger shouts. “Not much of a defense then.”

“We salt it,” Mirabella Brandybuck replies calmly. “We keep the river open as long as possible. The Brandywine Bridge can be defended, and if we Buckland folk look that the Brandywine in our part doesn’t freeze over, the bounders can concentrate on the north.”

“We could do this from here,” Berliac Brandybuck intervenes.

“We could,” Gorbadoc replies to his daughter’s suggestion. “But this would put us between an open river and orcs or whatever else is wont to come from the East.” Buckland hobbits know more tales than most of what lives in the Old Forest. 

Berliac merely frowns. “It is a difficult journey to make, now, all the way to Tuckborough or Little Delving.” Especially with elders and children, Bilbo thinks.

“But preferable over death,” Rorimac quite coolly announces. “We can hide from wolves,” he says as he turns to speak to the hall at large. “But orcs will be able to knock down our doors – our homes are not built to withstand actual attacks.”

Bilbo finds himself nodding along.

“Are we certain the orcs will come for us?” another hobbit inquires. “If we just leave them part of our stores, they may move on.”

“Orcs are not like roving bandits,” Rorimac replies.

“And how often have you dealt with orcs?” somebody else demands loudly. “How do we know what they will or won’t do except for what we know from rumors and fairytales?”

Rorimac glances to Bilbo, and then with an apologetic smile, inclines his head. “My experience is admittedly very limited. But I believe Mister Bilbo Baggins may have some first-hand information.”

Instantly the whispering springs up again, but Bilbo knows to ignore it. Following Rorimac’s lead, he rises to his feet, ignores the short stab of pain from his leg, and looks at the sea of pale faces surrounding him. He has not talked much about his adventures to those hobbits – and even less about the terrible battle at its end.

“I have encountered orcs several times,” Bilbo begins, thinking of the wargs chasing them, Azog, Bolg, and all those horrid creatures. “They possess a mean intelligence and revel in causing terror and pain. They kill for sport and in times of need will not hesitate to kill or eat another.”

Several hobbits close to him, Rorimac included, turn green.

“They will slaughter every living thing and desecrate the dead,” Bilbo continues, voice hardening. “They will not be content to plunder your stores and move on.”

“So hiding…” Berliac begins anew, her face now white.

Bilbo shakes his head, thinking of their mad chase across the Wilderlands. “You may be able to fool them with some luck, and some clever distractions.” But hiding in a cellar with three children while listening to orcs ransack the home above is more of a nightmare to Bilbo. “I would not recommend it.”

Berliac sinks back in her chair with a contemplative frown.

The Master of Buckland rises, and Bilbo sits down as his uncle begins to speak. “In light of this, I believe it is wisest to follow the Thain’s invitation. Hide those belongings you cannot carry, but take as much food, cloth, and firewood with you as you can. Tomorrow, we begin to evacuate.”

A shudder runs through the hall.

Even during the Fell Winter Buckland had not been evacuated – but then, many hobbits had died here. It is the better decision, Bilbo tells himself as his leg throbs. Especially if more orcs come, the small, spread-out hobbit settlements won’t stand a chance.

Together –

Bilbo remembers Azog. Should the orcs find a leader, even together his kin will hardly stand a chance.

* * *

After the meeting has finished, Bilbo is glad he does not need to travel. Cold sweat beads his back and forehead, and he has to lean heavily on Rorimac to return to his room. Asphodel follows, carrying a tray with a light meal and spiked tea, which Bilbo gratefully accepts. 

She hovers while Rorimac goes out to pick up clean bandages, shifting her weight uneasily. “I know Gorbadoc asked you to let Rufus and I stay in Bag End with the children,” she begins. “And I’m sorry if he put you in a difficult position. If you’d rather we -”

“Asphodel,” Bilbo interrupts while the pain thankfully begins to dull so he can direct a small smile at her. “You, Rufus and the children are very welcome in Bag End. Lobelia may be wrong about many things, but it is a big smial and there is more than enough room for you all.”

She deflates with relief. “Thank you,” she says quietly and steps over to the window. For a moment she peers out into the darkness, then decisively closes the curtains. “I think it will do the children a world of good. We tried to shield them from the worst of it, but ... “ She shakes her head. “I think Milo is doing as well as he can, and Mauro is too young to understand. Frodo … this is terrible timing.”

Bilbo’s heart aches for the boy. He still remembers the pain of losing his parents - and he had been far older than Frodo at that time. “It is,” he agrees quietly. 

“Staying at Bag End will hopefully do him some good,” Asphodel quietly confesses. “We thought having him remain here would be easiest, since most of his friends live in Buckland. But I know he goes down to the river often, and … it worries me something terrible.”

It’s entirely understandable, yet Bilbo agrees. In Asphodel’s place he’d all but try and forbid the lad from going down to river that already claimed his parents. He swallows. “But he is doing alright? Even after that … encounter?”

Asphodel presses her lips together. “He was shaken, but I don’t think the encounter frightened him that badly.”

Which means he got away before the fight started. Bilbo’s shoulders slump in relief - he had hoped the boy hadn’t seen him kill those orcs, and at least in this he apparently had been lucky. 

“Well, I hope -” Bilbo is cut off by the door opening and Rorimac marching in, carrying a wash basin, towels, and bandages. He looks between Asphodel and Bilbo, before continuing with a shrug. 

“We’d better get those bandages changed,” he says, as he makes his way over to Bilbo’s bedside. Asphodel makes to leave, but Rorimac calls her back. “Actually, I’d like to have a second opinion on that wound.”

And so Bilbo ends that evening by being doctored by his relatives while sitting on an unfamiliar bed in a nightshirt that used to belong a hobbit much rounder than him. It hangs oddly off his shoulder, but Bilbo is too exhausted to care - and he eventually drifts off before Asphodel and Rorimac have finished their ministrations.

* * *

Bilbo wakes bathed in sweat. His head pounds and a dull throb emanates from his leg, though his entire body feels stiff and sore. With a groan he struggles out of the blankets, shivering as the cool air hits his skin.

The sky outside has begun to brighten, and Bilbo wonders if he should go back to sleep. Exhaustion lies heavy in his veins as he shuffles toward the bathroom. Clattering from down the hall informs him that he is not the only one awake.

And when he emerges from the bath, he follows his nose in order to distract himself from the ill-boding hue the cut on his leg has taken. Rori, Asphodel, and Rufus cleaned it best they could, but Bilbo knows that orcs tend to coat their blades in filth and poison. Infection then is not surprising, though he hopes it won’t come to it.

“Bilbo,” Amaranth Brandybuck of whom Bilbo so far has seen very little, greets from where she cracks another egg over the frying pan, “Sit down, and I’ll get you a bite. You’re lucky you’re early – once the children arrive breakfast all but vanishes.”

Bilbo chuckles and sinks down on the bench with a barely suppressed groan. His muscles hurt something fierce – those last few days have taken their toll on his body. The last time he hurt so badly was the first week into the quest, and then they’d had fair weather and generally good conditions.

Though by the end of everything, Bilbo thinks and stares distractedly at the small plate that is set before him, he’d been a shadow of himself. He still remembers looking into a mirror by chance and not recognizing the thin, pale figure staring back at him. At least now he feels like a proper hobbit.

Mostly.

Bilbo shifts and thinks of the sword and mithril mail set in his room. No, he is no longer a proper hobbit. He may look like one again, but he has seen and done things no proper hobbit would dare to imagine.

“You look gloomy, cousin,” Amaranth says as she drops into the seat opposite of Bilbo.

Bilbo looks to the window.

“Any news from the Shire?” he asks. A new layer of snow has fallen and soon the snow will reach the windows. He did not hear wolves last night, but his sleep was deep and plagued by strange dreams. 

Amaranth hums. “More wolves came in from the north. The  Brandywine up in the North Farthing is frozen solid - anyone can march in through the Northmoor.”

Bilbo's heart sinks. 

“I heard orcs came two nights ago,” she continues and looks down at her own hands. “The dwarves took care of them before much harm could be done, but they made it as far as Dwaling.” 

Bilbo shivers.

“It's truly not a good year,” she sighs.

“Are there any plans?” Bilbo inquires. “If orcs made it as far as Dwaling, it may become necessary to evacuate the towns in the North Farthing after all.”

She shrugs. “I only know things from hearsay. The dwarves have brought most of their warriors up to Dwaling, and Shirriff Cotton is calling to arms all able and willing to fight.”

Bilbo takes a sip of his hot tea. It burns in his throat. Before long, he thinks, he will have to go north as well.

“Rori will go,” Amaranth tells him. “Asphodel wants to go as well, but we need her and Rufus to look after the children. I hope you don't mind putting up with them in Bag End.”

“Not at all,” Bilbo replies. Bag End is large - it can house a few more hobbits after all. “Any word on when we're going to leave?”

Amaranth glances outside once more. “Once most other hobbits have evacuated. So probably the day after tomorrow.” Her eyes return to Bilbo’s face and her expression softens. “You should use the time to recover. You do look unwell, Bilbo.”

* * *

Bilbo follows her advice and sleeps a lot. In between, he talks with Rorimac, Asphodel and Rufus. They will all go to Bag End, and then he and Rorimac will head north.

“I think I'll do more good there than in my home,” Bilbo replies to Rorimac pointing out that Bilbo already has done lots and is recovering from an injury.

Rorimac sighs. “Everybody will be glad to see you there,” he admits. “You are probably the only hobbit around who has ever been in a battle. But promise me to take care - your leg still isn't entirely healed.”

It has been improving, though. The unhealthy hue is gone and Bilbo thinks his fever has abated. It's still paining him, but now it is finally healing.

Inspecting the injury in the evening confirms as much. Once he started feeling better - yesterday afternoon in fact - he had tactfully sent Rorimac and Asphodel from the room. Extended family they may be, though Bilbo rather preferred to treat his wounds himself for the sake of his dignity. 

The cut remains an angry red line. It has begun to fade at the edges, though the widest part will take a good while to heal. He hopes the injury won’t bother him during tomorrow’s trip - they’re going easy, yet it will be more stress than he has put on the leg since the fateful orc encounter. 

He still shudders thinking how close it had been, and misses the pitter-patter of soft footsteps outside his room. 

“Uncle Bilbo?” Frodo shyly peeks around the door. “Are you coming with us tomorrow? Do we have to leave?”

Bilbo crosses the room in three long steps before crouching down in front of Frodo. No child should see such a hard winter – and they really should have brought the children to a safer place a long time ago.

“Yes, I’ll be coming with you. We’re all traveling together,” Bilbo tells his young cousin with a small smile. “It’s safer that way.”

Frodo looks to the darkness outside anxiously. “I don’t want to go,” he murmurs. “What if we run into … what if we run into orcs again?”

Bilbo purses his lips. “Then -” And the memory of his magic ring tugs on his heart with surprising vehemence. He wants it, wants it back - 

“We’ll be traveling in a big group,” Bilbo forces out, hoping that his inner unrest does not play out on his face. “It’ll be safe.”

Frodo watches him with unease.

“Also,” Bilbo continues, the words difficult to speak. “You still have my magic ring, don’t you?” He wants it back, it’s precious to him, it’s his, his, his - 

Frodo’s eyes widen. “Oh yes. I - it’s in my room. Do you -”

“No,” Bilbo shakes his head despite every part of his body screeching in protest. But this is the right decision, he knows it. “Keep it for now. It will keep you safe.” 

He tightens his hold on Frodo’s shoulders ever so slightly to encourage the boy and himself. They need to be strong - and the ring will be of more help to Frodo than to Bilbo. It makes sense to let him keep it (and Bilbo is appalled at the dark covetousness welling up in himself at the thought of the ring).

Though Frodo deflates. “Why can’t we just stay here?” he laments and Bilbo understands the feeling all too well. 

“I think all of us would rather stay here. But it’s  - you probably heard it - not safe during the winter. Once we get to Hobbiton, it we’ll be safe. You can play with Sam every day, and I think there will be quite a few people happy to see you.”

Frodo’s lips quirk up, though Bilbo can tell there is something else bothering the child. “Don’t worry, it’ll be quite alright.”

He hopes so. It will be a risky trip – their group is the last leaving Buckland, and they will be traveling with a small number of children and wagons. They ought to reach Frogmorton before nightfall easily...

But what if something goes wrong?

“But won’t they follow me?” Frodo asks, eyes brimming with tears. “I lead them here, did I not? When I ran away to the river - I didn’t mean to do that, uncle. I didn’t know they were going to be there!”

“Frodo, you listen to me,” Bilbo lays a hopefully calming hand on Frodo’s shoulder. “Those orcs did not follow you. They are coming because they are hungry and that is why we must move close to other hobbits. We can face them if there are many of us and few of them.”

Frodo nods, biting his lip in obvious contemplation.

“You know what,” Bilbo suggests. “How about you ride with me? Old Bingo is a sturdy pony and he can certainly carry both of us.”

* * *

Crossing the Misty Mountains takes longer than Thorin had hoped. Even the lower pass has been covered in snow, and though their goats master the difficult terrain splendidly, navigating the mountains takes time. They only run into goblins once - starving, haggard creatures whom are easily defeated, and a small group of orcs in similar shape at the western end of the pass. 

Their presence makes Thorin unease. It feels as if a shadow had fallen over Eriador - even the air here feels colder, sharper than on the other side of the mountains.

Eventually, they emerge into the Wilderlands. Under dark grey clouds the lands appear hostile, lifeless. No snow covers the ground yet, but frost grips the world and the trees have shed their leaves. 

“Rivendell is but half a day’s ride from here,” Kili mentions to Thorin as they strike up camp late at night. They started riding before daybreak, their goats making speedy progress despite the snow. Now everyone is worn out, ready to sleep.

Except for Thorin who glances uneasily to the west.

Kili understands his uncle’s concern - he worries for Bilbo, too. The roads have been dreadfully empty as winter has stopped all movement in Eriador. It does not bid well for the Shire. 

“It’s a detour,” Thorin replies belatedly as he turns back to the campfire. 

Kili nods. “I’m not saying all of us go.” He glances over to where Tauriel calmly polishes her daggers. It is a nightly ritual for her, Thorin has noticed. 

“Our group is small enough as it is,” Dwalin cuts in. “Fili’s group can send a runner to Rivendell if it’s that important.”

“It’ll take them even more time to get to the Shire then,” Kili returns, as he gratefully accepts a bowl of warm stew from another dwarf. 

“Rivendell does not have many warriors to spare,” Thorin returns gently. “They barely have the strength to protect their own borders. For anything beyond they have relied on the support of other elven settlements for centuries.”

“I wasn’t talking about military support,” Kili replies as the warmth from the stew begins to spread through his stomach. It feels a bit like magic, though nothing will ever feel as brilliant as Tauriel’s healing magic. 

“The elves may be able to help with healing,” he continues. “I mean, we can defend the hobbits. We’re warriors. But if they’re hurt -” He shrugs. Oin didn’t come, and Thorin’s brow has creased in thought. 

Stark winters, they have known, bring dangers beyond wolves and orcs. Coughs, fevers, chills, and starvation - the dwarves of Erebor lost many of their own to this in the early days of their exile. 

“What do you think?” Thorin asks of Tauriel. “Would you recommend a detour or push on?” 

If Tauriel is surprised none can tell. She gazes calmly to the north where Rivendell lies hidden. “The healing skills of the elves of Rivendell are unparalleled,” she says quietly. “If they would lend their support I believe it would be of great help.”

Dwalin huffs. “We can’t make a detour -”

“And we won’t,” Thorin shakes his head. “You two,” he nods at Kili and Tauriel, “Go to Rivendell and ask if they will support our venture. If they do, wait for Fili and join the host. Do not ride out alone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to drop me a line either or on my [tumblr](http://paranoidfridge.tumblr.com)
> 
> Also, next chapter will be FUN :3


	5. Battle on the Northmoor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They reach Hobbiton, but Bilbo already knows he cannot stay long. So he sets out north to help out the dwarves and hobbits defending the Shire's northern borders as the situation grows ever more dire.
> 
> Meanwhile, Thorin reaches the Shire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter features violence at its end (as well as a sort of cliffhanger). 
> 
> Once again, this chapter wouldn't be where it is without the support of [Seaweedredandbrown](http://seaweedredandbrown.tumblr.com/), [DraloreShima](https://hobbitystmarymorstan.tumblr.com/) and [ruto](http://rutobuka2.tumblr.com). And darling [catofcream](http://catofcream.tumblr.com) posted [amazing artwork](http://catofcream.tumblr.com/post/144420603989/amidst-the-winds-of-winter-chapter-1-by) for the first chapter over on tumblr! Go and take a look - it's gorgeous! 
> 
> MORE ART! [Teaxdragon](http://teaxdragon.tumblr.com) posted a stunning story poster - [featuring Bilbo in the snow](http://teaxdragon.tumblr.com/post/144674272902)! And [cat](http://catofcream.tumblr.com) drew Frodo and Bilbo together - [a scene from the end of chapter 3](http://catofcream.tumblr.com/post/144701351089/amidst-the-winds-of-winter-by)!  
> And the amazing [Hobbitymarymorstan](http://hobbitymarymostan.tumblr.com) drew [a breathtaking pic of Bilbo confronting the orcs](https://hobbitystmarymorstan.tumblr.com/post/144843682640/for-paranoidfridge-s-amidst-the-winds-of) in chapter 3!

It is a tense and cold journey that eventually delivers Bilbo, Frodo, Asphodel, Rufus, their two children, and Rorimac to Bag End. Even the ponies struggle with the snow, and the small roads can no longer be found. The Buckland Ferry has ceased operating so they need to turn north to cross the Brandywine by the bridge.

Bilbo eyes the encroaching ice with worry. Salting the river will only keep it open for so long, though the dwarves at the bridge house cheerfully promise to make sure the Brandywine bridge remains the only access point to the Shire from the east. They also have more worrisome news from the north. 

“It’s mostly rumors,” one dwarf whose name Bilbo doesn’t know says to him and Rorimac in a lowered voice. His two compatriots are busy having a snowball fight with Frodo, Milo, and Rufus - and their laughter contrasts harshly with the still, frozen landscape around them. 

“More orcs move in from the north - they are all fairly desperate, yet it also feels as if they are organized in some manner we cannot entirely fathom.”

Bilbo’s heart sinks and he remembers Amaranth’s dire report. He hopes she made it to Tuckborough by now. 

“The bounders are also all headed north,” Rorimac confirms quietly. “We’ll do what we can.”

The dwarf inclines his head, and Bilbo sighs. “Yes, we’ll do what he can.” Underneath his coat, he can feel the weight of Sting sitting heavily on his belt. 

They don’t stop for long. An air of unease follows them; they all know their numbers only provide a small piece of safety. And thus they are all glad when they reach Frogmorton without incident and just when the light begins to fade. The mayor of Frogmorton welcomes them and ushers them to the Inn where hot food awaits - and the children happily descend upon it.

Bilbo eyes the feast with a small amount of unease. 

“What about the stores?” he asks of the mayor in a quiet minute. “It will be months before we can resupply our stocks.” 

The mayor, a small, round man with crowfeet around his eyes, shakes his head. “The situation is not quite so dire, Master Baggins. We had a good harvest, after all.” His gaze turns to the window. “And I’m afraid this winter has quite reduced our appetites somewhat.”

Bilbo sighs and nods. It’s not good - he has blurred memories of the Fell Winter and how many hobbits took sick, lost their appetites, and wasted away - but that year the harvest had been bad, too. And the mayor is correct - the Shire had a good harvest; he collected the numbers themselves. He calculated that they likely would make it through the winter with a minimum of rationing. 

“Let’s hope it all works out, then,” Bilbo says.

At Frogmorten they only once more hear news from the Northmoor. More orcs have come, and a few have even slipped past the dwarves. They reached the outskirts of Dwaling where they killed two bounders before they could be slain. 

Bilbo and Rorimac share a look. Dwaling is too large a town to evacuate. Not after the inhabitants of Buckland already moved to the central towns of the Shire. No, they must defend Dwaling if they want to make it through the winter.

The next morning, their group is not the only one to set out from Frogmorton. A group of young hobbits, and Bilbo recognises a few, is saddling ponies and loading a wagon with produce and makeshift weapons. 

“They’re headed north,” Asphodel tells Bilbo and Rorimac, keeping her voice down in order to not be overheard by the children. “To support the bounders and the dwarves there.”

Bilbo turns his head. But the road to the north is equally buried underneath hip-high snow. Only the clouds there look even darker. 

* * *

They reach Bag End shortly after lunch. Closer to the Shire’s central settlements, the roads are in a somewhat better shape, and perhaps the prospect of home spurred them all on. The adults sigh with relief and begin to unload the wagon, while Frodo leads Milo straight to Bilbo’s study - and his favorite dwarven figurines.

While the children are happily engaged in their play, Bilbo sorts out his letters. Not many made it through the snow, but he received note that a number of his tenants had to evacuate to nearby towns. Uncomfortable, but it seems they all found relatives to provide them with shelter and no food shortage appears imminent. 

“What do the pantries look like?” he asks Rufus in passing, as he sees the other hobbit rolling a keg filled with salted beef through Bag End’s entrance door. 

“Filled to the brim,” Rufus declares cheerfully and stops to wipe the sweat of his brow. “It’s getting difficult to find place where to put everything.”

Hopefully all hobbits have such well-stocked pantries, Bilbo thinks and gives a nod. “Shall I help you put away the rest?”

Rufus frowns and looks to Bilbo’s leg. “I, well, I think Asphodel said you ought to rest. It’s been a long trip and you had Frodo on the pony with you - can’t have been all that good on your leg.” His face has gained a greenish hue, and Bilbo recalls at this point that Rufus has always been squeamish. 

But he is also right. Bilbo’s leg throbs - a dull, subdued pain that warns him from putting further stress on it, and so Bilbo agrees to sit back with little protest.

* * *

The next few days pass peacefully, yet with a growing sense of unease as the situation in the north deteriorates. Bilbo’s cousin Dudo arrives with his family - a measure of caution he claims - but they all understand that the latest incidents had happened ever closer to his home in the Northfarthing. 

Still, there is more than enough space in Bag End, and Dudo brought his own provisions. They have little need to ration - yet Bilbo feels his appetite dwindling. 

And he is not the only one. The one time he comes across Lobelia - stomping through the snow with a painfully bright umbrella and looking as if the snow had personally offended her - she’d looked thinner than usual. However, she’d been her pleasant self the moment they had exchanged greetings, expressing astonishment at Bilbo’s early return.

“I’d thought you’d gone off adventuring with dwarves again,” she proclaims. 

Bilbo thinks he wish he had. “Not this time, no.” 

He means to say that he won’t run away from his responsibilities. Instead it sounds hollow; they both now the dwarves that came through Tuckborough have not gone on a pleasant adventure but are fighting orcs in the north. 

“Maybe they will next time then,” Lobelia snipes back. “Might be for the best.” It’s supposed to be spiteful. Instead Bilbo finds himself agreeing with the sentiment. Hopefully the next time the dwarves will take him to Erebor, to Thorin. He misses them more fiercely than ever now - surrounded by his family, he has grown all the more aware of how odd for a hobbit he has become.

Certainly not fit to take care of Frodo, as well. 

Bilbo inclines his head. “In which case you may want to check in with the Thain and my lawyer. I already left instructions on who is to care for Bag End during my absence.”

* * *

Bilbo surveys his home with unease. This morning, a sense of dread hangs over the cozy rooms, despite the warm fires and well-filled pantries. Now that Buckland has been evacuated and its residents been settled, all attention becomes focused on the north. Tomorrow, Rorimac, Rufus and Bilbo will ride to Dwaling, and if need be (and Bilbo knows there will be) join the bounders and dwarven warriors there.

If they are to face orcs, it is unlikely all will survive. 

“Did you sleep well?” he asks when Rorimac wanders into the kitchen, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

“Quite well, how about you, cousin? You're up quite early.”

Bilbo shrugs as he pours them two cups of tea, and sits down at the table himself. There is a cut in the wood - was it one his dwarves caused?

Thinking of them is almost painful - they're so far away; the entire adventure feels like a dream now. 

“Are you sure you'll come with us?” Rorimac asks. “You don't look too well, and Asphodel and Dudo certainly wouldn't mind another pair of hands helping out.”

Bilbo sighs. His leg still is sore, though at least now the wound seems to be healing. “I'm coming,” he tells his cousin. He'd rather stay home in truth, but then it may only a matter of time until the orcs come to find them.

Rorimac eyes him quietly for a moment, before he gives Bilbo a wry smile. “While I should be persuading to you to stay, in all honesty, I’d feel safer if you come along. At least you have some idea of how to use a weapon.” 

Bilbo has indeed some experience with the sword… Unlike most of his fellow hobbits. The number of volunteers using their gardening tools to defend their homes has grown, but none of them are warriors.

“I’d rather hope it won’t come to that,” Bilbo replies glumly.

Rorimac turns to look out of the kitchen window. Bag End’s front yard is covered by layers of snow, down below even the Party Tree bends, and the sky overhead remains grey. “The traps the dwarves laid out will only get us this far. I rather think I’d like you to give us some pointers before we run out of options.”

Bilbo swallows down his protest. He’s an amateur compared to his dwarf friends. Yet compared to his fellow hobbits, he at least knows how to grip a sword. That this is considered skill here does not make their chances look great. 

* * *

They leave Bag End shortly after breakfast. Bilbo waves at Frodo, and for his sake, and the sake of Milo and his younger brother, they all try to smile and promise to return soon. Yet Asphodel’s face is drawn and Dudo looks anxious.  

Bilbo swallows as he looks as his home, now buried beneath the snow, and wonders if he will ever see it again. 

* * *

Darkness has long since fallen when Thorin and his entourage reach the wooden fence protecting Bree. A horn blows the moment they are in sight, and Thorin thinks he can hear weapons being taken up. 

“Halt! Who goes there?” somebody cries. 

“Thorin Oakenshield of Erebor with a group of warriors. We travel to the Shire,” Dwalin announces, leaving out their titles for once.  

There is a short pause, before the voice comes again from behind the closed gate. “What business do you have in Bree?”

“We are passing through and look to rest and recover for the night,” Thorin adds. “We will recompense you well for your hospitality.”

Another break follows, and the indecision on the other side is nearly palpable. “We’re not allowed to let anybody through after nightfall.”

“Then call your mayor or whoever is in charge and let us talk to him, unless you want us to camp out here,” Dwalin returns. 

At least he’s not threatening to set fire to their fence, Thorin thinks.

It takes quite a moment to wake the mayor of Bree - a portly man who got to his position without ever quite understanding how - and then shuffle the dwarves inside. At least the mayor shares an interest in seeing the matter resolved as quickly as possible.

“You travel west at this time of the year?” The mayor inquires the moment Thorin has taken his seat on one of those too tall, creaky chairs that furnish his office. 

Thorin nods. “We ride to aid the Shire. Have you had any news from there?”

The mayor frowns. “Not officially. Hobbits don't like to travel once winter sets in. But rumors claim that orcs have attacked settlements in the North. I do not know whether they are true, but as Bree has been attacked as well, I am inclined to believe them.”

Thorin's heart fills with dread. He gazes to the window, but only catches sight of his own reflection. Despite the long journey, he does look for and well-prepared; quite unlike the guards of Bree.

“Then we cannot lose anymore time,” he resolves. “Our main host follows a week after us, I ask you to allow them passage as well.”

The mayor swallows. “How many are we expecting? And while I can allow them passage, we do not have the mean to supply an entire army with food. Our own stores are dwindling already!”

“They are carrying their own supplies and some extra.”

Dwalin leans over at that point to suggest something in Khuzdul and Thorin nods shapely. “If possible, we would station two dwarves here to greet our host once they arrive.”

“If they can support themselves…” The mayor begins, visibly not entirely happy with the idea. Thorin understands his concerns, but cannot humor them now.

“They can, and I hope fifty gold coins should recompense your trouble. My warriors will help defend your town in case of an attack, but will join my main host in moving to the Shire.” 

The mayor blinks, and a spark of hope lights up his eyes. “That is very generous. May I, may I ask if you could spare a few men a while longer? We usually try to keep the East Road safe, but this winter we struggle to defend our own town.”

Thorin frowns, Dwalin leans forward and inquires: “You spoke of orcs. Where do they come from? What of the rest of the year?”

The mayor sighs. “We are lucky as the downs and the forest provide us with some protection. But in the last years we have observed an increase in Orc activity coming from the north. It does happen infrequently, so it was not an issue of great concern. But this winter drives all south, orcs and wolves alike.”

“They are fleeing from the cold?” Dwalin asks.

“Cold and starvation. It is a bit curious that they seem so focused on the Shire - marauding bands usually don't travel such a distance. Though the Shire certainly has richer stores than Bree.”

Something cold runs down Thorin’s spine. If the orcs are operating with purpose …

“We can press on,” Dwalin suggests on Khuzdul, anticipating Thorin’s fears. “If we continue, we'll reach the Shire by sunrise.”

Thorin nods sharply. “Thank you for your time, and sharing your concerns with us. I will leave word with my men to see what we can do for Bree. But my concern is the Shire and I must press on.”

* * *

They have settled in an emptied home outside of Dwaling where a heavy sense of foreboding fills the air. Up here, the hobbits already know that before long they will have to fight. And time is spent anxiously waiting for the signal to come.

Bilbo doesn’t think he has slept at all when the whistle comes.

It echoes through the night, high and bright like a bird’s call. But there are no birds like this in these woods, and Bilbo’s heart leaps to his throat.

They’ve come.

The orcs have arrived.

He stumbles from his bed, shivering in the icy air. It’s dark outside, with the moon covered by clouds and the ghostly shadows of leafless trees moving on snow-covered ground. The air has fallen quiet again, and he could lie down and close his eyes and pretend this was not happening.

He’d likely never wake up.

“Orcs! They have crossed the Brandywine!” The shout comes from the outside and in their small camp everyone begins to stir. Bilbo reaches for his mithril shirt, and his eyes meet Rorimac’s as he struggles to tie a leather vest. 

It won't stop an Orc blade. They are horribly outmatched. 

Still, under the command of confident-seeming dwarves, the hobbits rally with their makeshift weapons and insufficient armor. Word is they are facing a small group of orcs and are to prevent them from crossing the Northmoor. Ideally without triggering the trap hidden underneath the snow - as that is truly their last line of defence.

“I'd never thought it would come to this,” Rorimac says to Bilbo as they march out, making their way over snow-covered grounds. The stars are veiled, yet the snow reflects enough light to see by - and tint the world into an eerie blue glow. 

“No, I don't think anybody did,” Bilbo replies as his breath dogs in the icy air. His feet feel cold - but this may be due to the cold as much as his own nerves. What awaits them on the moor, he wonders.

A small band of orcs the dwarves may already have dispatched. The fact that they sent word to Dwaling, basically calling for reinforcements, no matter how ill-equipped, suggests that their enemy may be more dangerous after all.

Bilbo's heart sinks further with each step they take.

“Master Baggins,” a voice calls out and a sturdy pony draws up next to Bilbo and Rorimac. “Would you join me at command? You know these lands well.”

Bilbo only recognises the dwarf Gerlin under all his armor on the second glance. And he realises that the offers stems not from a need for his knowledge, but as a chance to keep him out of battle. 

“We dwarves would appreciate your input quite much,” Gerlin adds.

Bilbo sighs. “I'll join you later,” he says. First he will take a look at the battle with his kin. 

Gerlin nods, not entirely happy but satisfied with Bilbo’s response and rides away.

Now the distance to the moor shrinks even faster. Soon, only one hilltop separates them - and the wind seems to carry screaming.

“Do you hear that?” Rorimac asks abruptly, his face white. Bilbo shudders - it's familiar. Faint screams, the songs of metal and death - 

And then the Northmoor opens before them, all flat white land filled with moving bodies. Except for the few hills, the land seems to be crawling with orcs and Bilbo sucks in a sharp breath. Next to him, Rorimac only whispers “sweet Eru”.

Too many, Bilbo thinks. Far too many orcs. They don't stand the slightest chance. 

Then the call to battle rings through the moor.

* * *

Traveling through the Old Forest at night is uncomfortable. Thorin would be frightened, if his own mind was not scaring him more than the shadows of the trees. The nearer they draw to the Shire, the more urgent his worries become.

How do the hobbits fare?

How is Bilbo?

The news from Bree has disturbed him greatly, and he prays to Mahal that they are not already too late.

* * *

Bilbo Baggins wipes a stray curl from his sweat-soaked forehead. Already the icy wind cools him considerably, and he looks to his fellow hobbits across the snow-covered landscape. In the bleak light of daybreak the entire world is painted in white and black; black bodies lying in the snow, black blood running down his leg, black shapes moving and moving in the white landscape.

“They’re too many,” Rorimac says, dropping to lean on his makeshift spear next to Bilbo. “We’re too few.”

Not only that, Bilbo thinks, as he looks at the rows of hobbit bounders struggling to fight against the orcs. Those orcs are too well organized – he can’t see a leader, but he has seen orcs fight like this before.

His blood runs cold.  

“We’re not going to win like this,” Bilbo agrees, determination rising in his chest. “Inform the others – let the orcs come forward, into the line. I’m going to trigger the trap.”

* * *

Pre-dawn light illuminates a grey sky hanging over snow-covered hills as Dwalin and Thorin emerge from the Old Forest. All relief of escaping the oppressive forest fades at the solemn landscape ahead - except for a cold wind that tugs on Thorin’s cloak and hood, nothing stirs. 

The houses they pass are abandoned; their doors and windows barred, no smoke rising from their chimneys. As far as the eye can see, the land is empty of all living things. 

Thorin’s fatigue disperses as anxiety blooms in his chest. Have they come too late? The major of Bree seemed confident no catastrophe had yet passed, but - 

“Let’s just head to Hobbiton,” Dwalin suggests, his voice atypically subdued. “Perhaps they retreated to a more defensible place.”

A sensible explanation - though Thorin’s heart remains afraid as they urge their weary goats forward. Layers of snow make the old East Road difficult to follow, but soon Thorin and Dwalin and their small entourage spy a familiar bridge in the distance. Below, dark water flows by in swift, utter silence. 

“The river isn’t completely frozen,” Dwalin points out. “There might-”

“Halt! Who goes there!” Two figures detach themselves from the shadow of the old bridge tollhouse. Thorin squints, finding the spears and shapes distinctly unhobbitlike. 

“You’re the folks Dis sent,” Dwalin proclaims loudly. The two dwarves guarding the bridge blink, then the one in a blue cloak inclines his head. “Aye, we are emissaries from the Blue Mountains sent to protect the Shire on behalf of Lady Dis. And who are you?”

Dwalin scowls while Thorin pulls back the hood of his cloak. 

The blue-clad dwarf’s eyes widen. “The King under …”

“We… did not know you were coming, your majesty,” his colleague stammers, shifting his weight uneasily. 

“We rode as swiftly as we could,” Dwalin intercepts further questions. “Are you two alone defending the bridge?”

“No,” the blue-clad dwarf shakes his head while Thorin tugs his hood back up - the wind’s bite is icy and painful. “We… There are six of us supporting the hobbits in guarding the bridge and keeping the river from freezing over.”

“Good work,” Dwalin assesses. “In a couple of days the main host should arrive - they’ll help you with that task. Now, anything we must know of the situation?”

The dwarf flounders and Thorin’s heart clenches. 

“The, well, this area was evacuated. The south and the east are no danger, but most of the hobbits and the rest of our warriors headed north. They can’t keep the river from freezing over there - it’s where the orcs and the wolves come in.”

Dwalin curses under his breath.

“Any word on Master Baggins?” Thorin inquires softly. 

The dwarves look at each other, before the blue-clad one calls over to the stone building. Within moments, a hobbit dwarfed by a fur coat cut from a wolf pelt slips outside, rubbing his eyes.

“Master Baggins?” he echoes. 

“He left for Hobbiton, did he not? With the young Master Brandybuck and the children?” the blue-clad dwarf suggests.

The hobbit frowns. “He did, indeed. But I suppose he’ll have joined the fighting in the north.” 

Thorin's heart drops.

* * *

Bilbo drops the match onto the small pile of leaves with baited breath. Smoke rises, and he prays he will not be seen, and that this will work. The snow, everybody had warned, the snow may thwart all their plans.

For a moment, he sees nothing but a tiny flame sputtering atop a pile of frost-covered leaves. Acrid black smoke hits his nostrils...

[And then the world bursts into fire.](http://teaxdragon.tumblr.com/post/144976664547/amidst-the-winds-of-winter-by-paranoidfridge#)

Within a split moment, the leaf and paper tunnels they laid out and hid underneath the floor catch on fire. Like an unstoppable force, giant flames rush through the landscape, devouring everything in their path. The snow melts instantly, and the orcs screech.

Some of them are instantly incinerated.

Some burn alive.

Bilbo hears screams and screeching, shadows swaying among the flame. The entire world grows red, and even cloudy night sky reflects the angry fire.

His fellow hobbits have regrouped. The flames cast dancing shadows on their forms, and their makeshift weapons shine a blood-tinted red. The few orcs that make it through the firewall are swiftly taken care of.

From his vantage point Bilbo glances north. Few shapes move beyond the flames - their trap incinerated most of the orcs and wargs, and those that escaped are now fleeing. This was the largest group that attacked so far.

And Bilbo just used up their best trap in this part of the Shire.

After this the area will be -

Snow crunches behind him, he catches a movement from the corner of his eye. With a loud hiss metal cuts the air, and Bilbo drops to the ground just in time to avoid decapitation. The Orc curses, Bilbo rolls and staggers to his feet, fumbling to pull Sting from its sheath.

His frozen fingers clumsily grip the sword’s hilt and he has to duck away from another strike. The Orc growls, swaying, and the smell of scorched flesh hits Bilbo's nostrils.

He flinches, staggers back, just out of the way of another swing that would have disembowelled him.

Sting feels heavy in his hands, and his heart races already. He tries a stab, but it misses, and abruptly the Orc charges forward. 

Bilbo realises its intentions too late. The downward strike is but a distraction, and only the mithril under his coat saves him from the blow to his side. As the Orc pulls away, the blunt end of his blade connects with the side of Bilbo's head -

And abruptly the world goes black.

* * *

After the bridge the dwarves turn north, leaving the road. They pass a number of abandoned buildings, but as they make their way deeper into the Shire, Thorin spies smoke rising from settlements just beyond the horizon frequently.

Perhaps, he tells his anxious heart, it is not as bad as he fears. 

Behind the dark clouds, the sun rises. Shortly after noon, they encounter a large group of weary, bloodied hobbits wrapped in thick coats and makeshift armors. 

"We drove the orcs back," the commanding hobbit tells Thorin. Dark blood stains his coat and horror has dulled his eyes. "Many died..."

“What about Bilbo Baggins? Did you see him?”

Another hobbit steps forward. "Bilbo headed west and triggered a trap. I think this was what helped us win the battle..."

"And Bilbo?" Dwalin barks.

The hobbit raises her shoulders in exhaustion. "We don't know. He did not return to us, but he may have gone elsewhere instead." She looks to the gloomy horizon. "Or at least I do hope so."

* * *

Thorin and his group arrive to find a field of devastation.

A cold wind blows snowflakes, the smell of charred corpses and an acrid smoke into their faces. In a few places, flames still flicker against the slowly lightening sky. Most of the snow has melted, revealing barren and burned ground, though new flakes slowly begin to cover the bodies of the fallen.

Nothing stirs.

Thorin’s heart sinks.

"Orcs," Dwalin observes. "Look at how tall all of these bodies are. Those are orcs."

It's meant to be reassuring, but Thorin's chest grows heavy. Fear rises; if he is not here, where is Bilbo?

And then he makes the mistake of glancing down, and near his goat's hooves he sees a smaller body. It lies face down in the mud, and has been nearly cleaved into two, but it definitely is a hobbit.

Fortunately,  those dark curls are not familiar.

Bile rises up Thorin's throat nonetheless.

"Look for the origin of those fires," Dwalin commands. "If he set them off, he might still be around that location."

A cold gust of wind tears over the plain and pushes more snow on top of the unmoving bodies. With dread in his heart, Thorin allows the small group to split up; he and Dwalin head for the top of the hill.

There are fewer bodies here, though black blood stains the snow in many places. No red though, and Thorin is grateful for that small blessing.

He continues on, eyes fixed on the ground, looking for a clue that will let them know the fate of their hobbit. Maybe a hint he made it to safety, somewhere, for Thorin cannot bear to think him lost.

Not now, not here.

“Thorin,” Dwalin’s voice cuts through his ruminations. But some ill warning fills Dwalin’s call and a dark foreboding wells up in Thorin’s chest. His eyes follow the direction that Dwalin points to, a little under the top of the hill, facing away from the battlefield. 

Most of the snow there is yet undisturbed. But for a small body clad in a dark fur coat with silver stitching that is nearly hidden entirely by the snow.

“No, Bilbo, no,” Thorin mumbles as he crosses the last remaining distance toward the figure lying deathly still in the snow. "No, please no."

Bilbo does not stir, lying face-down in the snow. A halo of red-tinted snow surrounds his head, Sting lies next to his pale hand, covered by a thin layer of fresh snow. A gust of cold wind stirs Bilbo's curls, and Thorin falls to his knees.

"Bilbo," he says, not bothering to hide his heartbreak from the world.

He tried so hard, left practically the moment he got the message. And yet.

And yet it wasn't enough.

The pain in his chest is nigh unbearable. Thorin stretches out a shaking hand to at least touch Bilbo's curls, thinking of the few times he had done so during their quest. And how often he had thought about it later, how much affection he still had wanted to show Bilbo.

One day, one day, he had told himself.

Once the time was right, once Erebor was stable, once they all had a chance to recover.

Against his skin the curls still feel soft. Thorin savors the feeling - and then realizes this may very well be the very last time. His heart shatters. To think he'll never touch Bilbo again. To think he'll not get another chance to even speak to him (much less hear him laugh or see him smile) -

He reaches out and carefully turns the still body over.

Bilbo's eyes are closed, his expression is peaceful though his face is lined from worry and exhaustion. A cut on his cheek, a bruise on his temple -

"Mahal!" Dwalin curses and abruptly drops to his knees on Thorin's other side. While Thorin blinks in confusion, Dwalin places his hand over Bilbo's lips.

And abruptly Thorin realizes that Bilbo's cheeks are bright red.

"He's alive!" Dwalin exclaims, but Thorin is already gathering the hobbit into his arms. Even through both their cloaks, he can feel the intense heat radiate from Bilbo's face - he's burning up from fever.

"The nearest shelter!" he commands, even as he struggles to climb onto his goat. He will not let go of Bilbo, not when he has gained this fragile chance. Bilbo is barely clinging on - but Thorin will hold onto him as long as possible.

[He wraps his coat around the hobbit's small figure, pushing down the panic surging in his chest.](http://catofcream.tumblr.com/post/145043510599/amidst-the-winds-of-winter-by) "Quickly!"

For a time that feels far too long to Thorin but is actually rather short, they err through the snow. Then, Dwalin catches sight of the outline of a dark rooftop sitting against a copse of trees.

Bilbo, nearly drowning under all the blankets and coats he is wrapped in, groans weakly, but his eyes remain closed. Thorin’s “Bilbo?” elicits no answer, though he detects a faint pained frown on Bilbo’s face. It's probably the pain from his body beginning to warm up. His lips are still faintly blue, but a flush is struggling to crawl back onto his pallid features.

They hurry and Dwalin forces the door open after their knocking gains no reaction. The house is empty, cold. But there are stores of firewood and a number of personal knickknacks remaining. Evacuated then, not raided.

A part of Thorin worries that they are too close to the battlefield (though nothing did stir there), while he hurries  to carry the bundle in his arms to the bedroom they found.

Thorin carefully lays Bilbo out on the bed, and is about to step back, when Bilbo twitches. A small, pale hand closes around empty air before Thorin catches it, his own pulse quickening as he casts a quick glance to Himril. The healer frowns, yet waits. 

“Bilbo?” he asks, heart in his throat. “Bilbo, are you awake?”

Bilbo flinches and an odd, strangled noise escapes his throat. Cold fingers tighten their grip with desperation, but lacking strength. 

“We should begin treatment …” Himril whispers quietly, pointing to the bright red stain that has begun to seep through the fresh bandages wrapped around Bilbo’s head. 

“Bilbo?” Thorin’s voice quivers. 

Bilbo’s eyes open, and he weakly turns into Thorin’s direction. He blinks several times, though his eyes remain unfocused. 

“Thorin?” he mumbles. 

Thorin’s heart breaks and soars in triumph simultaneously. “Yes, yes, Bilbo, I’m here,” he says, gently returning the pressure of Bilbo’s grip. “I’m here, and Dwalin is here, too, and Fili, Kili, Bofur - they will be here soon.”

“They all…” Bilbo echoes, though he doesn’t seem to comprehend it. “You are all… so far away.”

He exhales softly, and the pulse under Thorin’s fingers stutters.

“Bilbo!” he exclaims. “We’re here! We have come here for you!”

A faint smile crosses Bilbo’s face. “... seen one last time…”

And then his eyes close again. The expression on his face is peaceful.

“No, Bilbo!” Thorin shouts, and Himril steps forward immediately.

“Allow me,” he asks of Thorin, and all the King under the Mountain can do is to step back and allow his healer to do his work. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to drop me a line either here on [tumblr](http://paranoidfridge.tumblr.com)


	6. An Overdue Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Many conversations and time to heal for Bilbo. Fili arrives with the main host, and all gather in Tuckborough for a strategic meeting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big, big thank you to [@seaweedredandbrown](https://tmblr.co/mdxL32j4JMIxrB9e8UfhLfA) for betaing the monster, to [hobbitystmarymorstan](https://tmblr.co/ma3E5boMNDdgHnEMe38a0Tg) and [rutobuka2](https://tmblr.co/m2VIQbdnKJuXg4IhyknsKmA) for further help and handholding.  
> With stunning artwork by the fantastic [catofcream](https://tmblr.co/mOi0rIt9X61nlb5uR4vNw1A)  
> 
> 
>   * [Preview ](http://catofcream.tumblr.com/post/144306930719/a-little-preview-of-my-collaboration-with-the)
>   * [Bilbo and Frodo](http://catofcream.tumblr.com/post/134886179634/this-is-a-sort-of-wip-that-ill-never-finish-for)  
> 
>   * [Bilbo and Thorin pining for each other](http://catofcream.tumblr.com/post/144420603989/amidst-the-winds-of-winter-chapter-1-by) (+ Poster)
>   * [Bilbo and Frodo encountering a group of orcs ](http://catofcream.tumblr.com/post/144701351089/amidst-the-winds-of-winter-by)(chapter 3)
>   * [Thorin hurrying an unconscious Bilbo to shelter](http://catofcream.tumblr.com/post/145043510599/amidst-the-winds-of-winter-by) (chapter5)  
> 
> 

> 
> More amazing art by the lovely [teaxdragon](https://tmblr.co/mPuuWzHKh_q4vKEiyCNWUtQ)
> 
>   * [Poster: Bilbo in his fur coat](http://teaxdragon.tumblr.com/post/144674272902/amidst-the-winds-of-winter-by-paranoidfridge)
>   * [Bilbo triggering the fire trap](http://teaxdragon.tumblr.com/post/144976664547/amidst-the-winds-of-winter-by-paranoidfridge#) (chapter 5)  
> 
> 

> 
> And fantastic art by [hobbitystmarymorstan](https://tmblr.co/ma3E5boMNDdgHnEMe38a0Tg)
> 
>   * [Bilbo facing down the orcs](https://hobbitystmarymorstan.tumblr.com/post/144843682640/for-paranoidfridge-s-amidst-the-winds-of)  
> 
> 


For two days and two nights, Bilbo hovers on the edge of life and death. Thorin boils water and melts snow to fight the raging fever. He uses all the blankets he can find  and his even own cloak to fight off the chills. [He holds Bilbo’s hand when he shakes with nightmares.](http://rutobuka2.tumblr.com/post/145562105119/my-illustrations-for-paranoidfridges-amidst-the)

The hobbit's face grows waxy, then flushes bright red hours later. His breathing grows quiet and shallow and Thorin's heart clenches. He sinks down next to the bed, rests his forehead on Bilbo's limp, cooling hand, murmuring prayer after prayer. Then he wonders what his wishes wrought when later Bilbo twists and turns, sweat sticking his hair to his forehead, whimpering under his breath.

On the afternoon of the third day, as pale sunlight streams through grey clouds, Bilbo's breathing evens out, and for the first time since they pulled him out of the snow, Bilbo seems to not stand on death's door.

Thorin's weary heart sings in joy, and he sways on his feet when he rises.

Dwalin catches him before he can fall. "Thorin, you need to rest," he tells him, and Thorin wants to protest, that no, he can’t, they have to make provisions, plan defenses, but his body won't obey. "You've been up for three days now, you need to sleep."

No, he needs to make plans. Once his knees will carry his weight again he will go out -

"Thorin, either you go and lie down on that cot over there or I will knock you out."

Thorin blinks, and finds that they have moved across the room. He can still see the bed Bilbo lies on over Dwalin's shoulder as he is wrestled down abruptly. Hard wood hits the back of his shins, and suddenly he finds himself seated on hard bedding.

A sudden wave of dizziness rises. He has so much to do -

"We'll take care of things," Dwalin tells him. "You sleep for now. I'll wake you up if anything happens."

Thorin doesn't agree, but he is asleep before his body has stretched out.

* * *

When Thorin awakens, the sun has long gone down and a small oil lamp cast a warm orange glow through the room. His hazy mind struggles to make sense of situation for a moment - all lies utterly quiet - before he remembers.

Immediately he looks over to Bilbo and catches the sound of regular, deep breathing. And the mountain of blanket stirs regularly; enough to smooth Thorin's beleaguered heart for now.

A blanket has been cast over his own body, and Thorin finds his coat, boots, and sword set on a chair next to his bed. As he sits up, his muscles groan from exhaustion, but that, at least, is familiar.

He puts on his things, takes a glance at Bilbo, and then slips out of the door. The hallway of the house lies in the dark, and the floorboard creak under his boots. A thin layer of frost covers the windows, and icy air bites into Thorin's skin the moment he steps outside.

A huge shape shifts in the dark.

"Up so soon again, Thorin?" Dwalin asks. His companion nods in silent greeting.

"Have you slept at all, Dwalin?" Thorin asks instead.

"Quite regularly, unlike you," Dwalin returns.

And Thorin sighs. He knows he has been remiss in his duties - but the fear of losing Bilbo had, and still, strikes terror within him.

"I'm sorry," he quietly admits. "I know I was not a good -"

"Hold it," Dwalin interrupts with a snort. "It's all fine. Saving Bilbo was our priority, and if you hadn't been there to hold his hand, either I or Dori would have done so. Least the lad deserves, really. And it's why we came here, so don't apologize for that."

Thorin chuckles tiredly and watches the sound transform into thin white clouds that dissolve quickly in the icy night air. "Did we have any news from the others?"

"Aye, they were just shy of Bree. I expect them to arrive within four or five days." Dwalin glances east, where all they see are silent fields buried under a soft white blanket.

"Did you relay my orders to leave a small contingent in Bree?" Thorin asks.

"I did," Dwalin replies. "And that shouldn't be a problem. Apparently, they picked up quite a number of volunteers on the way. It appears your words to Thranduil worked and we'll be expecting some battle-ready elves and men, too."

They are badly needed. Thorin still recalls the devastated battlefield - hobbits may have some tricks, but their numbers are by far not enough.

"The hobbits also were talking about some sort of reward of at least rations," Dwalin adds, and when Thorin makes to protest immediately continues. "Turned them down, of course, but they were insistent. Also told us that they will have a conference down in Tuckborough in five days, and would appreciate if our own leader would come."

"There appears to be some lingering confusion as to what all of us are doing here," their theretofore silent companion adds with apparent amusement.

Thorin smiles at the image.

"Dwalin, would you go to Tuckborough? I believe you..."

Dwalin shakes his head. "You should go, too, Thorin. As a matter of fact, Tuckborough is not far from Hobbiton and Himril was saying that now that our hobbit is stable, we can move him. It might be time to get him and ourselves into more comfortable quarters."

Thorin can see the truth in that. But he looks to the snow-covered field straight ahead. "What about the north? It is barely defended here, isn’t it?"

Dwalin frowns. "We're leaving a few scouts, but most of the houses have been evacuated. Mostly we hope no attack will happen before our main host arrives - I wrote them to head north straight after crossing the bridge."

That will have to suffice, Thorin acknowledges.

* * *

Bilbo awakens in an unfamiliar bed to an unfamiliar ceiling. His head spins with fragmented memories, and dulled pain weights down his body, warning him not to move. He remembers snow, the fire - the screams. 

Scrambling for his sword, failing to reach it. And then only darkness and confusing visions. He’d thought Thorin had come - but he likely must have confused another dwarf for him. 

“Ah, I’m glad to see you’re awake,” a voice interrupts his thoughts and from the corner of his eye Bilbo sees a dwarf approach. Bilbo doesn’t think he has ever seen him before, but his mind is not yet fully recovered. 

“How are you feeling?” the strange dwarf inquires, and once Bilbo confirms that he is doing as well as possible, the dwarf asks a number of questions to assess Bilbo’s mental and physical state. 

“You’ll likely make a quick recovery,” the dwarf announces while Bilbo gratefully nods at the steaming cup of honeyed tea - wherever it came from in these times. “Your injuries were not simple, but nothing was broken and the cut is healing nicely. Stay off your feet for a day or two longer.”

Bilbo nods. Sitting up is the most he can manage. Despite apparently having slept for three days straight, his legs feel utterly weak. 

“And then there is somebody else who I believe would very much like to speak with you. If you feel up for it.”

“Yes?” Bilbo agrees.

The dwarf smiles. And then vanishes out of the doorway, calling a name. But he can’t have called ‘Thorin’. Bilbo must have misheard. Thorin is in Erebor, on the other side of the Misty Mountains.

His heart aches wistfully. The battle would have never gone so terribly had Thorin been the one to lead it. A shudder runs down his spine as he recalls the fallen bodies of friends and neighbors; and the giant flames burning through the orcs. The screams. They would never have won this battle if not for the trap. 

But now the orcs know.

They will return, and then they will be prepared. With a new surge of unease, Bilbo recalls the order in their ranks - not unlike the orcs Bilbo saw marching under Azog’s command years ago. If they have a commander like Azog, then the Shire will -

A short knock draws him from his contemplations.

“Come in,” Bilbo calls. His voice catches as his throat is still sore and he means to clear it - when a familiar person steps through, concern written on his face, and Bilbo forgets to breathe at all. 

His mind goes blank for a split moment before his thoughts begin to race. How is Thorin here, how can this be? Is this a dream, a hallucination? Like that one dream he barely recalls - that conversation he doesn’t think happened. How much time has passed, and where are they, for Thorin cannot be in the Shire.

“Bilbo?” Thorin asks, and remains hovering next to the door. “Himril said you were up, but if you feel ill, this can wait until later.” His brows draw together as he studies Bilbo’s paling face, while the hobbit’s fingers clench around the bedcover. 

“Thorin,” Bilbo whispers, spell-bound. “What … how…?” He gives his head a small shake and with relief Thorin sees the shocked pallor retreating from the hobbit’s face. “How are you here?”

Thorin's expression softens and he crosses the room to sit next to Bilbo’s bed. He makes a gesture as if to reach for Bilbo’s hand, but aborts it - and Bilbo wonders if this is not all a dream.

“I came as fast as I could,” Thorin says, sounding apologetic. “Once I heard the news, I set out immediately. The others should also arrive soon.” 

Bilbo blinks. “This is no dream?” he asks hoarsely. “You have truly come?”

And now Thorin does reach out and enfolds Bilbo's hand within two of his own. “It's not a dream,” he confirms. “I'm here. I am only sorry I did not get here earlier.” 

Bemusement rises in Bilbo's chest, a faint smile blooms on his face. “I did not expect to see you ever again,” he murmurs. “What are you doing in the Shire?”

Thorin tightens his grip on Bilbo’s hand. “We came to aid you. You and your kin. My sister wrote that the winter was threatening the Shire, and no dwarf worth their merit would not come to aid one who has aided them.”

“All the way?” Bilbo echoes and his eyes widen as confusion mixes with something warm in his chest. “You came all this way for me?”

“I did,” Thorin confirms. “And I would do it a hundred times over. I could not,” and here his voice trembles, “bear the thought that you could come to harm when I could have done something to stop it.”

Certainly, he has lead his men from Erebor to save the Shire. They are a kingdom aiding a friendly region. But Thorin himself, he has come to help one he treasures. One he loves.

And perhaps - seeing Bilbo’s incredulous expression - it is time to tell Bilbo so once more. Despite what happened between them so many years ago, despite past guilt still being a burden on Thorin’s soul and warning him to not involve Bilbo with his feelings for nothing good may come of it - maybe it is time to let go of that past.

Bilbo stares at him at him, wide-eyed. “You… for me? All this?” His words for once are failing him, as a once impossible idea begins to blossom in his chest. “Are you, do you…”

“I love you,” Thorin confirms. “It is as I told you all those years ago. We dwarves love but once and nothing may change it.”

He sighs, recalling the dark events that followed so soon after his confession made amid the blooming flowers of Beorn’s garden. “I know I … forfeited the right to hope for any sort of feelings from you. But even so, as a friend, I could not abandon you and your kin to the dangers coming your way.”

He looks down at the hand he still clasps, wondering if he even has the right to so familiar a touch. “And if not I, then I believe the other dwarves who call you friend would have come here anyway.”

Bilbo’s expression is incredulous to the point of being nearly comical. “You… you…” He shakes his head and straightens his back. “You incredible dolt!”

Thorin abruptly looks up and finds Bilbo’s eyes red-rimmed. 

“How often have I written to you that I miss you? How often have I said that you are the best friends I ever had? How often have I all but spelled out word for word that I love you?”

Thorin … can actually remember the letters carrying those implications. He'd thought them polite words for his benefit. And only now he realises that perhaps Bilbo might have thought he was merely being humoured by Thorin as well. 

All three words he wants to say in protest get stuck in his throat. 

“I've loved you for so long, Thorin,” Bilbo mumbles and raises his free hand to rub at his eyes. “I thought I would never see you again.”

Thorin's heart breaks all over again at the desolation in Bilbo’s voice. So he changes his grip to clasp Bilbo’s hand in his left and reaches out with his right palm to gently cup Bilbo’s cheek.

“Why did you not come back to Erebor, then?” Thorin asks as Bilbo closes his eyes and leans into the touch. His skin is soft, a little warm from the fever still, and Thorin scolds himself for forcing this conversation on him when he still so clearly is recovering. “Arranging an escort would not have been a problem.”

Bilbo purses his lips and reaches up to entangle Thorin’s fingers with his own. “I... well. I got caught up, I suppose. And maybe, I … I kept thinking that you are a king now - you would be busy, and then… What use is there for a hobbit in a kingdom of dwarves? Would I have not soon become a nuisance? And what of the political side - would a hobbit at your side not invite attack?”

Bilbo's eyes find Thorin’s, and they seem to be searching his soul.

Thorin wets his lips. “While there may have been some political upheaval,” he begins, “no one can disclaim your place in the mountain. In all honesty, I think us dwarves can do with a new perspective every now and then.”

He smiles and leans further forward to touch his forehead against Bilbo’s,  careful so as to not cause his hobbit any pain or disturb the bandages wrapped around Bilbo's head. “It wouldn't have been easy, I think, but worth it. It still is worth it.”

He feels Bilbo take a shuddering breath. 

“I know this is your home, but if, after this winter has ended, you want to come to Erebor…”

Bilbo's breath hitches. “I wish I … I want to…” he murmurs, nearly inaudible..

And because Thorin's heart is a cowardly thing that could not bear to now hear rejection, he postpones it. “Just think about it,” Thorin suggests. “There is no need to decide now. First we need to make it through the winter.”

He can feel Bilbo shudder. “Alright,” he agrees and as he pulls back from their intimate position, his lips ghost past Thorin’s.

It's not a kiss, but for now it must suffice.

They both lean back, unsettled in the wake of their intense emotions. 

“You said the others came too?” Bilbo inquires. “Are they here? I think I heard Dwalin, but that may have been my imagination.”

Thorin nods. “Dwalin is here, though Balin remained in Erebor to govern the mountain in my absence. Gloin, Oin, and Bombur could not make the trip either - their duties and families forced them to stay, but they send their apologies and promise to visit as soon as they can.”

“Everybody else came?” 

Thorin nods. “Dwalin and I rode with an advance guard. Kili and Tauriel were with us to Rivendell - they decided to see if they could gain gain further support from Lord Elrond.”

“Lord Elrond?” Bilbo echoes, incredulous.

Thorin nods. “They did name you elf-friend. That title should amount to something. Hopefully Thranduil does send some soldiers along as well.” 

Bilbo merely looks on in astonishment.

“Erebor's main host should reach the Shire soon. Fili leads it, and Bofur, Bifur, and everybody else is riding with them.” Hopefully they will soon make it. The last nights were quiet, but everybody is certain the orcs will come back.

They did not have time to work out an emergency strategy. Their short meeting with the dwarves from the Blue Mountains only sufficed to convey basic news. The hobbits’ trap won the battle - but on any other terms they would have been defeated. 

The number of dead alone - minuscule for any major battle - has caused fear among the survivors. 

As if sensing his thoughts, Bilbo's expression grows solemn once again. “How did the battle end? I don't remember.”

Thorin thinks of the charred ground and the burnt and mangled bodies. “You won, though nobody could recall seeing you after you set off that trap. We ended up searching quite a while for you.”

Bilbo shivers. “Thank you for finding me,” he says quietly. 

He yawns, fatigue visibly trying to pull him under again, and Thorin knows he should let him sleep. 

“I would have searched through all of the Shire to find you,” Thorin vows solemnly. “I would not have stopped looking before you had been found. And I would do it all over again.”

* * *

They set out early the next morning. Bilbo is wrapped in multiple layers of blankets, to the point he can barely move. And he does protest the treatment, though his face twists in discomfort when the dwarves help in on Thorin’s pony. 

Within a few moments of setting out, Bilbo is asleep and Thorin hopes traveling will not aggravated his injuries. Himril said they were healing well when he last assessed Bilbo’s condition.

They reach Bag End by mid-afternoon.

Dudo Baggins ushers them in, having been informed of their coming by a runner the dwarves sent ahead, hurrying to close the door behind them, while Himril waves at the three children watching them from the doorway with wide eyes, the youngest half-hidden behind Asphodel’s skirt.

“We prepared the master bedroom,” Rufus says toward Thorin and Bilbo, who is more leaning on Thorin’s arm than standing in his own right.

“Thank you,” Bilbo murmurs.

“Everything you need should be there,” Rufus adds, looking to Thorin who inclines his head. They need to look after Bilbo’s wounds – the trip shouldn’t have worsened them, but he’d rather make certain.

“Uncle Bilbo!” a young voice calls out, and a child brushes past Asphodel and runs into the entrance hall, eyes widening.

“Frodo!” Dudo scolds lightly.

“Uncle, are you alright?” Frodo yells, voice jumping. Thorin feels Bilbo attempt to straighten, but with his face chalky white and a matted bandage peeking out from under his hood, he doesn’t look too healthy.

“I’ll be just fine, Frodo,” Bilbo murmurs.

The lad’s eyes only widen.

Dwalin steps forward, draws the lad’s attention to him. “Listen, lad,” he says. “Your uncle took a good knock, but he’ll be right as rain. Just let him rest for a day or two.”

Bilbo is still too dazed to confirm, but he will be alright, Thorin tells himself. He knows that type of injury – Bilbo will be fine.

* * *

They settle in Bag End. Even with three dwarves, four adult hobbits, and three children, it doesn’t feel crowded, but warm and comfortable. Everybody has settled into an easy rhythm within a day that sees the dwarves carrying in more firewood, while the hobbits insist on doing the cooking. Entertaining the children is a duty shared equally among them, though peeling Frodo from Bilbo’s side is a challenge. Thorin doesn’t fare too badly at it - being the legendary dwarf King from Bilbo’s stories helps in that regard.

On the second day they receive news that the main host from Erebor - strengthened by volunteers from Dale, the Greenwood, and Rivendell - has reached the Shire. Obeying the orders left for them, they turned north immediately. And Thorin knows he needs to ride out to join them soon. 

Once the meeting with the Thain has passed, he will do so.  He would rather not allow Bilbo out of his sight, but the hobbit is recovering and almost fine now except for a low fever and a limp.

A soft noise draws him from his thoughts.

Bilbo stirs, eyes fluttering open. "Thorin?" he mumbles.

Thorin crosses the room in three large strides and settled down on the mattress, and meets Bilbo’s fingers as they reach for him. 

“I'm here, Bilbo.”

The hobbit smiles and Thorin leans forward to press a gentle kiss on his forehead. When he sits back, Bilbo's eyes have cleared and his smile has grown wistful. 

“What time is it?” he asks, glancing to the window and the darkening world outside. 

“About time for tea,” Thorin replies. “Do you feel up for it?”

Bilbo rubs at his eyes. “In a moment,” he says, smiling balefully at Thorin. “I still can’t quite believe you’re here.”

With a small chuckle Thorin tightens his grip on Bilbo’s hand. “I could pinch you, if that helps.”

Bilbo boxes his shoulder. “I think I’ve been pinched and poked enough recently,” he declares with a dramatic shudder. “Far be it from me to doubt the efficiency of dwarven healing, but your healer’s bedside manners could use some pointers.”

“He learned from the best.”

“You mean Oin,” Bilbo flatly concludes. “I do remember his instructions in Laketown - ‘don’t leave your bed, best don’t move at all, and hold still while I poke you’.” 

Thorin’s forehead creases. “Oin usually doesn’t talk quite that much.”

“I know,” Bilbo agrees. “I was paraphrasing his expressions.”

Thorin does laugh at that. “He’s good at that, isn’t he? The stern disapproving look he gives you when you flinch - I thought he must have used them all up at some point, but it turned out he wasn’t nearly done.”

Bilbo’s expression softens and he studies Thorin’s face closely. The shadow of a scar still sits over his brow - nearly completely healed now. “You got badly hurt then.”

Thorin deflates with a loud sigh. “He’s right most of the time,” he admits. “Though if you don’t mind - Himril said some of your injuries must have predated the battle on the Northmoor. How did that happen?”

Especially that cut on Bilbo’s leg. When examining it Himril had frowned, and proclaimed it would heal, “though it will likely bother him for a while yet.” 

“For a while… before you came, things didn’t look quite so good,” Bilbo says, quietly. “We tried what we could, setting up a messenger system, and then your sister dispatched dwarves from Ered Luin, too. The wolves we could evade, but then orcs came from the north and killed the miller, and in the end we realised we had to evacuate the smaller settlements and all of Buckland.”

Thorin nods, shuffling a little closer so that Bilbo can lean against him. 

“I rode to Buckland to inform them, but when I arrived everybody was in an uproar because Frodo had gone missing,” Bilbo continues. “I found him at the river, though on our way back we ran into a group of orcs.”

He shudders. 

“We got out, though I ended up getting that cut on my leg.”

Thorin swallows. “Did Frodo…”

“He didn’t see the fight,” Bilbo shakes his head immediately. “I sent him ahead when I realized we couldn’t escape.” He trails off, recalling the despair in his veins then. 

And Thorin abruptly realizes how close he had come to losing Bilbo then. He lets go of Bilbo’s hand and instead pulls the hobbit into his arms, burying his face in those slowly greying curls. 

“That must have been terrible.”

“There were only three of them,” Bilbo replies quietly. “You’d not have had any problems. I got two, then the last one ran away.”

He sounds shaken, and a part of Thorin is, too. Thinking of both Bilbo and Frodo dead in the snow makes something in his chest flinch and tremble, and Thorin instead brings his face over Bilbo’s shoulder to place a kiss on his cheek - but then Bilbo twists his head so his lips meet Thorin’s. And for a moment they simply share the sensation - warmth, affection, and the assertion that they are both alive.

“Master Thorin, Bilbo! Would you like tea?” somebody calls, and after a short knock the door is pushed open. Bilbo and Thorin fly apart, though Dudo, standing in the doorway, merely raises an eyebrow in amusement. 

“Well, we’d be also glad to see you at dinner,” he chuckles, while Bilbo fishes for words, and Thorin turns away to hide his reddening face. With a cheerful hum Dudo leaves the room again, not even waiting for a reply. 

“That…,” Thorin manages after a moment. “I apologize, this was improper. I should have…”

“Oh shush,” Bilbo cuts him off. “It’s likely they already know, or at least guessed it.”

Thorin flushes. 

“I mean,” Bilbo continues and his flustered expression turns into a beautiful smile. “You traveled all the way from Erebor to here. It’s not that difficult to do the math, I believe.”

The inhabitants of Erebor reached that particular conclusion a while ago already, despite any official declaration from their monarch. Though the fact that the company figurines - especially those made by Bifur - usually placed Thorin and Bilbo together had probably provided the final clue. 

“Isn’t that… I mean in the Shire… won’t it cause a scandal?” Thorin asks, concerned. He’d come to help Bilbo, not to make him pariah among his kin.

Bilbo merely grins and shrugs. “Being in love with a dwarf? No, I think the biggest scandal is still the fact that I dared to leave on an adventure. Falling in love with a dwarf seems rather unspectacular compared to that.”

* * *

The inhabitants of Bag End are awake before sunrise the next day, as they plan on arriving in Tuckborough early. Nobody expects the knock on the door when the sky just begins to brighten. And it is with some concern that Dudo takes a glance out of the kitchen window and reports: “Dwarves. There are dwarves outside.”

“Master Baggins!” somebody calls out cheerfully. “Bilbo, don’t tell us you moved!”

Bilbo’s eyes widen. He glances at Thorin across the breakfast table, and the King under the Mountain smiles brightly in return. 

“Let them in,” Bilbo calls, still a little slow to rise while Thorin is crossing the distance to the front room with a few, long steps. Asphodel pulls open the door to reveal a small group of cheerfully grinning dwarves, all wrapped to their ears in coats and furs. 

“Fili, Kili,” Thorin greets with warmth, and draws each of them into a tight, warm hug. 

“Bilbo, where’re ye?” another voice calls out.

“Bofur?” Bilbo exclaims, crossing the suddenly crowded entrance room as quickly as possible. Bofur finds him first, and enfolds him in a hug that lifts Bilbo’s feet right off the ground. 

“Made us all worry, lad,” he laughs. “We weren’t sure we’d make it in time. Really, write us early next time!”

Breathlessly Bilbo claps his shoulder, shaking his head in disbelief. He’d heard Thorin say most of the dwarves were coming - but seeing them here, back in Bag End, makes his heart soar.

“Bofur, how -” 

“Bilbo!” somebody reaches over Bofur’s shoulder to ruffle his hair, and Bilbo finds Bifur grinning at him.

“Did you get hurt?” Ori calls over from where he and Nori are unwrapping their layers of clothes. “Oh dear, you got hurt! Didn’t Thorin and Dwalin get there in time?”

“They got there quite alright!” Kili calls over cheerfully, and before Bilbo can turn around, two dwarfs lift him off his feet again and spin him around. “Ah, it’s so good to be back here,” Kili says, while Fili grins and nods, not minding that this pushes his chin rather uncomfortably into Bilbo’s shoulder.

“You’re uncle Bilbo’s dwarves, aren’t you?” Bilbo hears Frodo ask - he can’t see anything, what with Kili’s hair blocking his view.

“Bofur and Bifur, at your service,” Bofur returns. “And who would you young gentleman be?”

Frodo giggles. “Frodo Baggins, at your service,” he says. “But you are no dwarf, are you?”

Fili and Kili release Bilbo from their enthusiastic hug, and Bilbo spies the large figure hovering uncertainly at the door. She almost hits her head at the ceiling - a problem that so far had been Gandalf’s alone. Though now she bends down to smile at Frodo.

“No, young Frodo, I am an elf,” she says. “My name is Tauriel, and I -”

“Oh, Miss Tauriel!” Frodo exclaims happily. “Uncle Bilbo told me about you! You are really good at fighting! You saved the dwarves from the spiders!”

And Thorin has seen many things, but never an elf actually blush. Two unmistakable spots of colour appear on her cheeks, and her smile widens. “Thank you!”

“Hey,” Kili protest, sauntering up to sling an arm around Tauriel’s shoulders - it ends up with Kili awkwardly on his toes and his hand somewhere at the back of Tauriel’s neck, “we fought off a good number of those spiders too! Bilbo, what stories have you been telling about us?”

Bilbo assumed an expression of utter innocence. “Only what I witnessed.”

“Oh yes,” Frodo adds cheerfully, “she saved you at the barrels too!”

“I was shot!” Kili protests urgently. “Else I would have defeated all the orcs on my own! Every last one of them!”

Frodo does not look entirely convinced. 

“Look, I can show you!” Kili insists. “Get a coat and then we'll go outside and I will…”

“Nice as that would be, I believe we should get going if we want to reach Tuckborough in time,” Bilbo interrupts, though secretly he is glad to see the uninterrupted excitement shining in Frodo’s eyes. The child didn't even flinch at the mention of orcs - he's proving himself surprisingly resilient to the horrors of this winter.

“I could show him on the way?” Kili suggests.

Thorin shakes his head. “The children will stay here.” A small smile crawls over his features. “Though I suppose this means you two ought to stay here too!”

“Hey!” Fili shouts over from where he and Bofur are hard at work diminishing Dudo’s homemade cookies. “I led an army here, uncle! Your army, in case you forgot that!”

* * *

Tuckborough is teeming with life when Thorin, Bilbo, and the other dwarves arrive. Hobbits hurry back and forth between buildings, passing messages and preparing for the grand meeting - everybody can sense the tension in the air.

Yet underneath the anxiety now lies a kernel of hope. And Thorin is glad that it’s the arrival of his warriors which brought it. 

Several pale-faced hobbits call out in greeting to Bilbo and Asphodel and they are all warmly welcomed to the home of the Thain. A steaming cup of tea is placed before Thorin by the Thain’s wife who looks from Bilbo to Thorin.

“So this is -” she begins, and Bilbo hastily nods. “Thorin Oakenshield, yes.” His fingers, below the table, find Thorin’s.

“An honor to make your acquaintances,” Thorin states, not quite certain how to react to the assessing gaze she lays on him. 

Whatever test there was, he seems to have passed it, since her features soften and Bilbo squeezes his fingers for a heartbeat. “You rode all the way from Erebor?”

Thorin straightens. “My honor requires me and any dwarf to render aid to those that have helped me.”

“Your honor?” she echoes, her lips thinning. “You crossed half of Arda, left behind a kingdom, and even rode at the head of your host, all that on behalf of your honor?”

Thorin flushes. 

“Grandmother,” Bilbo gently intervenes while tightening his grip on Thorin’s fingers. “This is not -”

“Could everybody please find a seat?” Gorbadoc Brandybuck calls over the heads of all hobbits and dwarves present; his voice easily cutting through all private conversations. Adamanta Took huffs before turning her back on Thorin and Bilbo and making her way toward her own seat. 

Most of the hobbits are seated - often more like squeezed - around round tables which either group together related clans or clans by their area. Bilbo spies a number of faces that have probably made the trip to Tuckborough for the very first time; Master and Misses Goldfield from the Southfarthing, the Groosers from Oatbarton and a number of hobbits from Michel Delving.

Bilbo himself sits with his dwarves - which has earned him a number of frowns, from Lotho, Dudo, and various cousins, but sitting next to Thorin feels quite right. Even if all of his companions keep sneaking worried glances at him. 

“Thank you for making the journey,” the Thain says as he steps up to the small podium put up against the far wall of the room. “Now, forgive me for skipping any pleasantries to be had, but let us come to the reason we have gathered.”

“The winter shows no signs of abating. It will yet at least be a month before the snows may start melting. Longer still, should winter linger or more snow fall. Yet our decision to collectivize our grain has proven fruitful: we can easily last through two more months of snow without having to reduce our current rationing.”

“What about the dwarves?” somebody shouts from the dim light next to the door.

“They have obviously been taken into account,” the Thain smoothly replies.

“We brought our own rations!” Kili exclaims. 

“Even so,” the Thain adds. Bilbo’s shoulders slump in relief. Running out of food had been a frightful experience back during the first Fell Winter - yet it seems the hobbits will be spared this. 

“Food, at the moment, is not a concern,” the Thain continues. “Neither is tinder. What, however, remains an issue are the outside threats. We have successfully kept the western boundary shut and I believe we will be able to hold this border.” 

Regular saltings and patrols, Bilbo recalls. They may have to check the soil downstream in spring, but for now keeping the river ice free has priority. 

“The North Moor is our greatest weakness. Despite the battle fought there a fortnight ago, already new wolf packs have been sighted in the area. Unconfirmed rumors speak of orcs as well.”

Bilbo swallows, remembering the world burning. He’d thought all was ended then - but in the long run he probably had always known that the orcs would return. Below the table, Thorin’s fingers tighten around his. 

“Now, thanks to the generous support from Erebor, Dale, the Greenwood, and Rivendell, we do have a chance at defending our lands in the north. Which is why I will ask any hobbit here to relay to their friends and neighbors that for the time present all dwarves, elves, and men ought to be treated with the utmost respect and courtesy.” The Thain’s words echo over the hall like a thunderclap.

“And I also encourage you to support them in any way you can. The dwarves may be warriors, but these are our homelands, and defending them is our task as well.”

* * *

“We have enough men to easily defend the northern border,” Thorin says the moment the Thain sits down at their table in a chair Fili thoughtfully vacated. The young prince nods in agreement - with the added manpower of the volunteers from Dale, Rivendell and Mirkwood, protecting the Shire is no longer a challenge. “We do not need any hobbits to volunteer to support us.”

The Thain chuckles at that; a wary but honest sound. “While I’m aware that some of us are so unskilled they may as well be supporting our enemies,” he says lightly, “I also believe that working among actual warriors may be a valuable experience. We have grown comfortable in our homes and forgotten about the dangers of the world.”

Bilbo nods along with a small sigh, and Thorin finds he has nothing to say on this. Fili, however, straightens where he stands, and asks: “That is not all, is it? I mean the reason you asked for volunteers…”

Thorin glances to his nephew and for a moment marvels at his bearing. It’s not even been a decade since they reclaimed Erebor - yet Fili already has become a highly capable leader, exuding easy confidence and level-headedness. He will be a great King one day.

“It was not,” the Thain confirms and draws Thorin out of his contemplations.

A deep frown crosses his wrinkled face and he looks to the hobbits around them - those that now joke and chatter with ease and relief, thinking the grave danger passed. 

“There is something I would like to investigate,” the Thain says in a lowered voice, and all surrounding their small table automatically lean forward. New unease fills Thorin’s chest, despite having a good idea of what the issue may be. Bilbo does appear similarly pale. 

“Fornost,” Kili guesses.

The Thain’s lips thin. “I do not know if those ruins truly lie at the heart of the issue.”

“But it would appear so,” Fili concludes thoughtfully. “While there are good explanation as to why so few threats have approached the Shire from any other direction than the northeast, it is conspicuous that, even in a winter as harsh as this one, the main threat would come from one direction alone.”

“There have been a few wolves and bandits wandering in from the northwest and the south. But those were few in number and ill-organized.” The Thain affirms, and then looks to Bilbo. “The orcs that attacked us from the north, however, were fairly well organized and armed.”

Bilbo confirms this with a nod and repeats what he already confessed to Thorin. “It was one of the things that made me uneasy early on - the orcs I ran into outside of Buckland were marauding without a clear aim. The ones we fought on the Northmoor, they were in marching order - not nearly as well-organized at Azog’s horde, but enough to remind me of it.”

He shudders, and Thorin settles a warm hand on Bilbo’s knee underneath the table. If only they had made it to the Shire but a few hours earlier - if he closes his eyes he can still see the blood-drenched snow, smell the acrid smoke - 

“And then there are the rumors in Bree,” one of the volunteers from Dale adds. “They also said that most of the attacks came from the north. They also had quite a few tales to tell about Fornost, too.”

“Ah, the Breeian ghost stories,” the Thain comments, and the hobbits at the table chuckle.

“But what about those ruins?” Fili asks. “What do we know about them? Could something or someone have set up there?” 

Gandalf never truly told them what happened in Dol Guldur. But after, from rumors and the hints the Mirkwood emissaries dropped, Thorin had been able to piece together a good deal. Bilbo - who stiffens now - must have known, too.

Yet should they be up against a sorcerer of that magnitude, Thorin thinks all the dwarven and elven armies will be of little use. 

“It used to be a great city of men,” Bilbo begins. “Capital of the northern kingdom, though it fell to Angmar and was never rebuilt. There are many rumors surrounding the place - it’s why men and hobbits do not go there.”

“What kind of rumors?” Kili inquires. “Something like the dead seen walking?” 

“No. Only that all who go there do not return.” 

Thorin can’t quite help the shudder, though Kili looks undaunted, and turns to the lonely elven emissary at their table. “Do the elves know anything of the place?”

The elf blinks in surprise. “I … I do not believe any of us ever visited Fornost after it fell,” he replies after a beat. “The taint of dark magic on that place was likely to be terrible…”

“What about now?” Kili presses on. “Would it still be tainted?” Or would, Thorin wants to ask, would there be a type of magical residue allowing to be abused? The witchking of Angmar may be at times little more than a footnote in dwarven history, but even so they know of his power.

“More than an age has passed since,” the elf replies. “It should not have endured.”

“So if it has,” Kili concludes, “then we know somebody is doing something there.”

“Which is all utter speculation at this point,” Fili interrupts mildly. “But I believe - and I hope I understood your intentions correctly, Master Took - a scouting mission may be in order.” 

“Scouting and destruction, if necessary,” Thorin resolves as he leans back in his chair but leaves his hand on Bilbo’s knee. “As we can defend the borders with little trouble now, it is a good time for a sortie to clear up any packs lingering just outside. And from there we can march directly to Fornost, should we need to.”

They will, he thinks.

Bilbo was right, after all. Those wolves and orcs are not mere marauding packs - there is a mind guiding them, a purpose behind their presence. They only do not know who is behind them.

* * *

“Uncle Bilbo! Uncle Bilbo!” A small blur of black and bright green bursts from Bag End’s doorstep the moment they make the last turn on the snow-covered path leading uphill. “You’re back!”

With a laugh, Bilbo picks up the enthusiastic child in a hug, while Kili reaches over to ruffle Frodo’s dark curls. “Of course we’re back. Told you we would be!”

Frodo giggles, and Bilbo mock-frowns at him. “What did I tell you about wearing a hat?” 

“Not to leave home without one.”

“Exactly. As long as there is snow on the ground, you will only leave the house in proper clothing,” Bilbo admonishes without any heat.

“But it’s nice out today!” Frodo proclaims gesturing to the sky and the landscape surrounding them. The Shire still lies buried under nearly a meter of snow, but today the white does not feel so threatening anymore. For the first time, Bilbo also takes in the clear sky - he did notice the drop in temperature earlier, but somehow failed to appreciate the lack of clouds.

Now daylight is already fading and a sense of unease grips his chest like a vine (what will they find in Fornost?) - though as he gazes out over Hobbiton, it looks nearly like any normal winter day. Lights have been lit along the small paths and down at the Green Dragon. The soft breeze faintly carries the sound of laughter - dwarves and hobbits toasting to a smooth end to this winter. 

“Yes, it was quite nice indeed. But now let’s get inside - it’s still rather cold after all,” Bilbo tells Frodo with a shudder he does not really have to fake.

* * *

“You should stay with the boy,” Thorin starts apropos of nothing later that night. Bilbo, once again, is folding clothes for his travel pack, while Thorin sits in the armchair next to the fireplace, a mug of tea sitting before him. He looks rather at home in the chair, a part of Bilbo thinks - like he belongs. 

“He’s really quite attached to you,” Thorin continues, smiling sadly into the flickering flames. “It would be a blow to him if you left.”

Bilbo swallows. “I’m not his guardian,” he replies and the protest sounds flat to his own ears. “I’m not even his uncle.” 

Thorin chuckles. “I’m not Fili’s and Kili’s father either.”

“I know,” Bilbo sighs and abandons his packing to wander over to Thorin and perch himself on the armchair’s wide armrest. “Though before this winter it would have been scandal to even suggest having Frodo live with me. What does a bachelor know about caring for children?”

He leans against Thorin, stares into the fire. 

“You’d do admirably,” Thorin says after a beat. He himself managed in the end, so Bilbo - who is socially far more adept than Thorin - will likely be handle the task with ease. 

“I’m not sure,” Bilbo replies. “Before … well, before his parents died I had thought to go and travel again. Maybe even all the way to Erebor. I was, I still am curious to see how the mountain has developed.”

Thorin’s heart warms. “I think you would enjoy it.” He’d love to show Bilbo the repairs. How life has returned to those haunted halls and empty corridors. How light and warmth fill Erebor once again. 

“Once I adopt Frodo, I won’t be able to travel,” Bilbo says wistfully. At this point the adoption is likely a foregone conclusion. Bilbo will not be able to see Erebor before the lad is fully grown. And Thorin is still King under the Mountain; he cannot remain in the Shire.

A small, sad smile plays around Bilbo’s lips. “So please don’t ask me to remain behind while you ride to Fornost,” he continues. “I know it would be better for Frodo if I stayed behind, but allow me to be selfish one last time. He will be well cared for in Bag End.”

Thorin exhales, then wraps his arms around Bilbo and draws him from the armrest onto his lap. Pulled up against him, Bilbo feels small underneath his shirt and waistcoat - certainly leaner than his fellow hobbits, though far from the gaunt creature that left Erebor so long ago. The Shire is good for him, Thorin thinks once again, and that wish in his heart to see Bilbo in Erebor would likely hurt them both. 

“Knowing you were here would make me feel better, too,” Thorin speaks softly, his lips pressed against honey-colored curls. “But I know you, and I am selfish, too. I would have you by my side.” For as long as possible - but that part he does not speak out loud.


	7. Fornost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While the situation in the Shire improves, the threat lingers. And in order to address the threat, Thorin, Bilbo, and hobbits and dwarves all make their way to Fornost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big, big thank you to [@seaweedredandbrown](https://tmblr.co/mdxL32j4JMIxrB9e8UfhLfA) for betaing the monster, to [hobbitystmarymorstan](https://tmblr.co/ma3E5boMNDdgHnEMe38a0Tg) and [rutobuka2](https://tmblr.co/m2VIQbdnKJuXg4IhyknsKmA) for further help and handholding.  
> With stunning artwork by the fantastic [catofcream](https://tmblr.co/mOi0rIt9X61nlb5uR4vNw1A)  
> 
> 
>   * [Preview ](http://catofcream.tumblr.com/post/144306930719/a-little-preview-of-my-collaboration-with-the)
>   * [Bilbo and Frodo](http://catofcream.tumblr.com/post/134886179634/this-is-a-sort-of-wip-that-ill-never-finish-for)  
> 
>   * [Bilbo and Thorin pining for each other](http://catofcream.tumblr.com/post/144420603989/amidst-the-winds-of-winter-chapter-1-by) (+ Poster)
>   * [Bilbo and Frodo encountering a group of orcs ](http://catofcream.tumblr.com/post/144701351089/amidst-the-winds-of-winter-by)(chapter 3)
>   * [Thorin hurrying an unconscious Bilbo to shelter](http://catofcream.tumblr.com/post/145043510599/amidst-the-winds-of-winter-by) (chapter 5)  
> 
> 

> 
> More amazing art by the lovely [teaxdragon](https://tmblr.co/mPuuWzHKh_q4vKEiyCNWUtQ)
> 
>   * [Poster: Bilbo in his fur coat](http://teaxdragon.tumblr.com/post/144674272902/amidst-the-winds-of-winter-by-paranoidfridge)
>   * [Bilbo triggering the fire trap](http://teaxdragon.tumblr.com/post/144976664547/amidst-the-winds-of-winter-by-paranoidfridge#) (chapter 5)  
> 
> 

> 
> And fantastic art by [hobbitystmarymorstan](https://tmblr.co/ma3E5boMNDdgHnEMe38a0Tg)
> 
>   * [Bilbo facing down the orcs](https://hobbitystmarymorstan.tumblr.com/post/144843682640/for-paranoidfridge-s-amidst-the-winds-of)  
> 
> 


They set out on the second morning after the council in Tuckborough. By then, a number of hobbit volunteers has joined the ranks of what Kili has now come to refer to as the “Shire Defense Corps” and they will ride with the host toward the north. In cooperation with the bounders and Dis’ delegation, the dwarves will be securing all other borders, though the hobbits will manage all interior issues. 

The main host - dwarves, men, elves, and hobbits - turns north. Fili oversees their movements; he has done so since they left Erebor, and has by now convinced them all as a commander. It is one of the small benefits of this expedition, Thorin thinks. His nephews - for Kili has managed his tasks admirably too - have had ample occasions to display their skills and merits. 

He only wishes it had not come at the expense of the hobbits. 

Thorin, Dwalin, Bofur, Bilbo, three bounders, and a hand-picked group of warriors including one of Elrond’s healers, five archers from Mirkwood and Dale, as well as twenty dwarves form the lead of the host that counts nearly two hundred.

Before them the Shire lies white but no longer lifeless. Smoke rises from settlements that lie hidden behind snow covered hills, at one point a group of children crests a hill to watch them march past - they wave cheerfully when Kili winks at them, and soon a small group of hobbits comes to offer them food.

They don’t move forward very quickly. 

That night, they camp near Dwaling. Bilbo is immediately reminded of their journey to the east when the dwarves light big fires to chase away the cold and the dark. From the far side of the camp laughter and songs echo, and Bofur joins in cheerfully. Bilbo leans his weight against Thorin’s side, smiling wistfully as the flames cast Thorin’s face into a warm, orange glow. 

They both have gained new lines during the years they spent apart, and they do not know what awaits them in the ruins of Fornost. 

“Thank you for coming here,” Bilbo mumbles against the thick fabric of Thorin’s coat. 

The King under the Mountain turns his head to look down at his former burglar. “It was… I told you, I could not have made any other decision.” 

He wraps an arm around Bilbo’s shoulders and draws the hobbit closer to himself. “And even if you weren’t my One, you are still a hero of my people. And your kin deserved help during these circumstances,” he continues. 

Bilbo hums. “When the winter began,” he says and his eyes wander to the flames. “I thought we were alone. Not because our neighbors would not help us, but because the world had all but forgotten about hobbits. Only the folk in Bree seemed to know of us, and they did have their own share of trouble.”

“It felt so lonely,” Bilbo confesses quietly. Thorin reaches for his hand with his other arm; disregarding that this nearly pulls Bilbo onto his lap before the entire camp. It is not, he admits to himself, as if his armies did not know or at least suspected anything. 

“And the only people I could have asked for help were either missing or living on the other side of the Misty Mountains.”

It is perhaps telling, Thorin thinks, that even now Bilbo always sits with the dwarves and not his fellow hobbits. His heart urges him to invite Bilbo to Erebor. Certainly, he will miss his armchairs, but he may be happier there than he is here. 

“But we came,” Thorin reassures his One. “The moment we heard of your trouble, we came, and we will do so again, as long as my line rules under the mountain.”

* * *

On the next morning, as soon as they have left the settlements behind, Thorin urges their war rams forward. It takes Bilbo a moment to adjust to the odd gait - but soon he appreciates the rams’ sure footing. Even off road, when everything has been buried beneath snow, they do not slip or stagger. The rams merrily trot on, the terrain not hindering them at all. 

The sun is already waning when they pass the battlefield. A fresh layer of snow has fallen to cover the charred ground, and soon no trace will remain. The hobbits have carried off their own dead and burnt the orcs before wolves could be attracted by the dead flesh. Now the Northmoor lies silent and solemn, all traces of the battle nearly gone. 

A shudder runs down Bilbo’s spine. 

Thorin frowns. It’s time to make camp, but he can still see the blood splattered on the snow here; how the entire ground had seemingly turned red. He’ll press on. This is no good spot to rest. 

So they make camp shortly after nightfall and tonight there are no warm fires. An icy wind picks up shortly after dark and blows in thick clouds, and on the following morning the world is covered in a fresh layer of white.

* * *

“What lands are these in summer?” Dwalin asks of Bilbo as they pursue their steady track northeast. The world before them lies in utter silence; the lands flat and white with few, leafless trees breaking the monotony. 

“Wilderness, mostly,” Bilbo replies, shivering even under his heavy black cloak. “It would be fertile farmland, but the area is too unprotected. And with the proximity to Fornost, very few farmers ever were inclined to even try.”

“Does anything live here at all?” Kili exclaims, urging his ram forward. “This feels so dead!”

A tired smile crosses Bilbo’s face. “Quite a number of wild animals. Usually nothing more dangerous than wolves, though.” Compared to other parts of the world, wolves appear harmless. Yet, to hobbits, they are fearsome predators. 

“I don’t see anything,” Fili comments after a moment, gazing left and right. And Thorin realizes he is correct: there is no trace at all of animals around. No birds in the sky, no tracks on the ground. 

“This doesn’t bode well,” Dwalin concludes.

They continue with their guards up. They go slower now, and they frequently send scouts ahead to ascertain the lands are empty. At one point, they gallop back, the furs of their rams splattered with black blood.

“Orcs,” Nori reports grimly, having led the scouts. “We dispatched them all - no injuries on our side, those were starving creatures. Weak, but I think they were either scouts or guards as well.”

Bilbo shivers, and Thorin nods sharply.

“We came across them near that small copse of bushes over there,” Nori continues, pointing to a place hidden beyond the hill to their right. “They were huddling for warmth I think. Barely put up a fight.”

“This sounds more like guards than scouts, I believe,” Fili comments as he urged his own ram forward. “How far are we from those ruins?”

“Not far now,” Bilbo replies, eyeing the still, white landscape with unease. “Perhaps two leagues, but no more than three.”

“Did you see anything?” Thorin asks of Nori again who shakes his head in return.

“No ruins or anything on sight.”

“They could be buried by all this snow,” somebody suggests, but this idea is quickly shot down by Fili. 

“Those orcs were guarding something,” he says looking ahead with a frown. “And I doubt their lair - whatever it is - will lie hidden underneath the snow.”

What nobody says, yet even Bilbo cannot stop himself from thinking is how much easier this would be had they detailed plans and descriptions of the ruins. It feels liks they are advancing by feel, blind and uncertain. 

“Very well,” Thorin announces, turning to the soldiers behind him. “Let's make camp here - before we advance any further, I want to know where our enemy sits and what it looks like!”

“Any volunteers for scouting?” Dwalin translates. 

“I will go,” Tauriel speaks up, striding forward on her horse. 

“Then so will I!” Kili chimes in, and soon they have enough volunteers to form two scouting teams. For the rest of their army, the time has come to wait, though Bilbo anxiously eyes the sky.

They have a few hours of daylight left, though the clouds threaten fresh snowfall soon. 

“... should go around.” The wind carries Dwalin’s word to Bilbo who years his eyes from the sky and then wanders closer to his companions. 

“Perhaps we should wait for a strategy until we know the lay of the land?” Gerlin cautions. 

Thorin hums. “We can still decide on the general outline beforehand.” Dwalin nods.

“I'd like to keep the hobbits at the back,” Dwalin says. “Except for the bounders, they barely have armor.”

Bilbo clears his throat. “While I agree, I think those that have made this trip do actually want to fight.” He doesn't know many of the hobbit faces that joined. Most of them come from the north or were friends of the miller who was killed. A few of his Buckland relations have joined as well.

“They will likely still get involved,” Thorin replies. “The rear guard needs to be watchful for anybody trying to attack from behind and must attack the straggles.”

“The more orcs that get away, the more likely it is they will gather elsewhere and come back,” Dwalin adds. 

“I see,” Bilbo nods with relief. His fellow hobbits are no fighters - but quite a number are angry enough that Bilbo thinks they will have little trouble taking down a few fleeing orcs.

“I would also like to set another firetrap,” Thorin says quietly. “While it does seem unlikely at this time, but should worse come to pass and it turn out we are unable to win this fight, there must be a last line of defence.”

Bilbo shudders, though Dwalin nods quietly. 

“We’ll take care of it,” Bofur offers, speaking for himself and his cousin. “And don't worry,” he adds as he ruffles Bilbo’s hair in passing, “it won't come to that.”

Thorin clears his throat and draws Bilbo from his uneasy thoughts. “What I would like to do,” the King under the Mountain continues, “Is ride out with a small squadron and try to draw out whoever is behind this.”

Dwalin nods. 

“Also we need to at least formally offer a peaceful solution before battle,” Thorin adds, and Dwalin snorts. “Let's try not to draw that part out.”

“If those are orcs, it's highly unlikely there will be more than five sentences exchanged,” Thorin replies. “Especially if they only see a small force before them they'll likely chose to engage rather than to enter negotiations.”

“Fili, I want you to bring our main host forward only once the battle has started.” Thorin nods to his nephew and then turns to Nori. “You select however many you deem necessary and circle around the back of the structure the moment they emerge. And Gerlin, if you and your men could coordinate with the hobbits to secure the perimeter?”

Determination settles over Thorin features and he returns his gaze to the snowy slopes ahead. “I don’t want to let a single orc escape.”

Bilbo shivers.

* * *

They don’t have to wait very long for their scouting parties to return.

“It’s just behind that second line of hills,” Kili explains, gesturing over his shoulder.

“It’s a small, crumbling fortress sitting in a valley,” Tauriel explains. “I believe it may have been part of the Fornost city walls a long time ago.”

“Would there be underground tunnels?” Dwalin asks immediately.

She shakes her head; her red hair shines bright even in the dimming light. “No, what tunnels there were will have crumbled long ago. This fortress only stands because it has been repaired time and again.”

“Who would do that?” somebody wonders.

“There were attempts to resettle Fornost,” Tauriel explains. “Though mostly I believe the location would have provided shelter to Vagabonds or unsavory creatures.”

Not that they fared well there either, Bilbo thinks to himself. The north is too inhospitable, the neighboring regions of Bree and the Shire too suspicious and superstitious to deal with any entity settling in those cursed ruins. And the Barrow Downs and Old Forest will have done the rest.

“So one crumbling structure is all there is?” Thorin asks. “How large is it?”

“I don’t think it could house a force larger than eighty at the most,” Kili replies.

Thorin’s army, even without the volunteers and the hobbits swelling their ranks, easily counts two hundred. Even if Kili’s estimate should turn out to be wrong - they still ought to be able to win.

Fili slumps slightly with relief, though Thorin’s brow remains wrinkled in a frown and Bilbo watches him tensely. 

“We do not know if they have any other kind of weapon,” Thorin cautions. “Are we certain this is their headquarter?”

“There is no other settlement around before Bree,” Bilbo replies quietly. “And while there are some copses of wood that might provide shelter in the warmer months, during winter …” He trails off, shaking his head. It suffices to take a look - everything is either covered in snow or frozen solid. Without proper gear, there is no surviving in these brutal conditions. Already temperatures are dropping again as night approaches.

“Very well,” Thorin concurs. “Let us draw them out. Fili, you stay here and take command. Dwalin, Kili, you come with me. Bilbo -”

“I’ll come with you, too, Thorin,” Bilbo says before Thorin can refuse him. His heart pounds with anxiety, but he manages to direct a smile at his dwarf. “If we are to confront whoever has been guiding these orcs to attack the Shire, I think it might make sense if you had an actual hobbit with you.”

* * *

They cross one line of hills. Then the other.

Before them, in the middle of a small valley, sits the fortress Tauriel and Kili spoke of. Many years ago it may have been an impressive building - now all that is left is a crumbling structure. The third floor has been nearly entirely destroyed by weather, and the elements have claimed one tower - though there might have been more. Left standing is a thick, two-floor structure no taller than a Laketown house, and one squat three-storey tower with crumbling walls.

What makes Bilbo’s heart skip a beat is the light of fire flickering in the windows. 

“Come out!” Thorin demands, his voice rising to echo across the snow, proud and strong. “Come out and claim responsibility for your deeds!”

The words falls silent, and a shudder runs down Bilbo’s back. A gust of wind blows past them, making the bushes rustle and stir. The air feels heavy; the ground tainted - it reminds him of Mirkwood, though the taint is far weaker here. 

“Who asks?” a bodyless voice hisses, coming from nowhere and everywhere at once. 

Thorin does not look intimidated. “Thorin Oakenshield, King of Erebor, on behalf of the hobbits of the Shire and Buckland and the men of Bree.”

A current runs through the air, like a thousand voices whispering just out of earshot, and the snow around the fortress stirs. The hair on the back of Bilbo’s neck stands; he can sense an ill power at work as the world around them appears to darken.

Their rams dance uneasily, trying to evade the encroaching darkness, and gasps run through their small squad.

“It’s magic,” Bilbo hisses. 

Thorin looks to him with some surprise. “It is. Can you tell if it is harmful?”

And Bilbo abruptly remembers that dwarves are rather immune to most forms of magic and enchantments, and almost feels like laughing. “It … feels ill. Not very powerful and I don’t think it will cause harm, but it doesn’t feel good.”

Thorin huffs and forces his ram to dig its hooves in. “Cease your witless tricks and come forth!” he roars. 

The darkness hovers. It thickens.

“Only when you and all that ride with you have bent your knees and pledged themselves to me,” the voice hisses. 

Around them the world grows ever darker, but Bilbo can feel the magic weakening already, and fraying at the edges, allowing the light to flicker through. Thorin, too, does not seem perturbed.

Instead, he turns his head. “Archers! Send a fire volley!”

And in a split second red flames illuminate perhaps fifty arrowheads, piercing the darkness and casting flickering orange shadows over determined faces. Bilbo’s breath catches; then - on Dwalin’s signal - all arrows are fired simultaneously. 

The darkness bursts. Many arrows land harmlessly in the snow or clatter and splutter out against frozen stone walls. But two or three catch onto frozen ivy atop the building and burst into a bright blaze. 

“Ready!” Dwalin commands, and in that split second the fortress’ central gate bursts open.

A huge black cloud emerges, hissing and roaring and growing, growing, growing. 

“It's a magic trick!” Dwalin shouts. 

Bilbo clenches his fingers around the reins of his ram. He squints. There are silhouettes moving within that dark cloud - it's no more than a fog obscuring the number of orcs that run out, swinging their weapons and shouting.

Thorin lifts his sword. “To battle!”

And he charges.

Bilbo's ram runs with its fellows; the dwarves take up the shout of their King, and they race right into the black cloud. Like smoke, it blocks Bilbo’s vision, and he more hears than sees the clash of blades and those soft wet thuds of weapons piercing skin.

Figures drop to the ground, the darkness lessens. Bilbo's goat dances aside, but the approaching Orc is ruthlessly cut down by a dwarf. Belatedly, Bilbo pulls Sting from her sheath - Thorin and Dwalin have charged ahead, are cutting deep into the enemy lines. A horn sounds from behind them, announcing the arrival of their main host.

Somebody screams, Bilbo turns to see a man fall, face-down into the snow. Blood spreads around him, and for a moment Bilbo’s heart twists. 

Then he realises that this is no soldier from Dale, but a bandit that must have cast their lot with the orcs. As he gazes around, he sees that they are fighting against a ragtag group of men and orcs. All thin, possibly starving, and haggard, but nonetheless driven.

Where the sorcerer who cast the spells is, Bilbo does not know. 

And he can't keeping looking, because two orcs make it past the dwarves fighting to Bilbo's right and charge straight at him. His ram turns to face one and lowers its head - and with a wet squelch, its antlers pierce through makeshift Orc armor with ease.

The second Orc attempts to evade them. Bilbo's arm doesn't quite reach but Sting does: the blade cuts through the tendons in the Orc’s neck like butter. The Orc chokes and splutters, black blood sprays the ground, and it falls over, dead.

Bilbo watches the black blood drip from his blade and his stomach twists. 

But a battle is no place for doubts. Bilbo turns his ram back into Thorin's direction and pushes forward, making certain to swing his blade at all orcs that threaten to come close. Some he hits, some dodge, and one catches him at the ankle. White-hot pain surges up Bilbo’s spine: it's not debilitating, instead it helps him focus.

Dodge, parry, slash, ride forward.

Time loses all meaning. The world seems forever caught in a cacophony of screams and clashing blades under a grey winter sky. The snow turns red and black, and now there are dark shapes on the ground, still and unmoving. The air smells of blood and fouler things.

Bilbo rides forward, trying his best to ignore his frantically beating heart and the fear that threatens to disable him.

He steers his goat around a melee group of dwarves and orcs - and arrives before the fortress hate just in time to see Thorin take off the sorcerer’s head.

Bilbo sees him for barely even a split moment. But it's enough to realise that the tall, black-clad figure is the one who cast the spells, to sense the tainted magic in him - and then it abruptly disappears as Orcrist slices clean through his neck and red blood sprays forth. 

“Thorin!” Bilbo shouts, “Thorin!”

Dwalin turns first and nods to Bilbo. He nudges Thorin into Bilbo’s direction, saying something Bilbo can't hear. Dwalin returns to the fighting, while Thorin rides toward Bilbo.

“Bilbo,” he greets with obvious relief. Then he spots the blood on Bilbo’s leg. “You're hurt!”

“It's a shallow cut,” Bilbo replies, wanting to reach out and embrace Thorin. Now that they took down the sorcerer, he feels victory is close. 

Thorin studies him. “You should get it looked at.”

“Later,” Bilbo says. “What about you, are you alright?”

Thorin raises a blood-soaked glove. “A shallow cut, too.”

And Bilbo feels like laughing hysterically. Aren't they matched, with their shallow cuts and flushed faces?

“This part of the battle won’t be a problem,” Thorin tells Bilbo, eyeing the moving bodies around them carefully. “Look how your kin are doing - they may need support!” 

Just behind Thorin, an arrow pierces the thin chest of an approaching orcs, and black blood splatters onto the frozen ground. Bilbo nods, breathlessly, nearly deaf from the screams and clashes. 

“Go!” Thorin shouts and spurs his ram to turn, raises his sword in the air and charges forward, back into the battle.

He’s right, Bilbo tells himself, grasping the reins with sweat-soaked hand; they’re winning this battle. Already the screams are all those of orcs and the blood on the ground is black rather than red, and the dwarves outnumber them. Soon more orcs will try to flee and then the hobbits defending the outskirts may need support.

He urges his goat away from the battle. He catches a glimpse of the slope they came from - protected by many dwarven sentries, this route offers no escape for orcs and bandits. The southern road has been blocked by Gerlin’s dwarves, who upon Bilbo’s inquiry confirms that they have no trouble holding their ground. 

Bilbo rides east then, where the ground turns rocky and uneven. Hobbits - bounders and civilians alike - guard the peak of the steep ascend, holding torches and makeshift weapons. Some desperate orcs are still trying to scale the rocks - despite their dead compatriots lining the ground.

“And this is for trampling my grapevines!” Dora Baggins yells as she slams a the metal end of a large garden shovel into the orc’s head. The  orc drops down to the snow.

“Watch out, Bilbo!” Rorimac shouts, and Bilbo just has enough time to dodge the wild swing of an approaching orc. The creature bleeds heavily, limping and has lost an eye, but it’s mad with fright and swings again and again, until Bilbo’s ram stumbles and they both fall.

Bilbo hits the ground hard; all air driven from his lungs and for a moment he sees stars. His goat bleats in panic, scrambles up and runs before Bilbo’s mind has cleared, he just catches another warning shout and hears the orc gurgles something; far too close. And Bilbo just manages to roll away from a blow aimed at his head. 

He fumbles for Sting, deaf to the panicked screams of his relatives, and tries to find stable ground under his feet. The orc is injured, malnourished, but still easily twice Bilbo’s size, and when it swings its rusty, curved blade again, Bilbo is forced back, back, and back again. 

Don’t waste strength on trying to block, he reminds himself, let it wear itself out. Already the orcs gasps for air; it’s strikes heavy and imprecise, stumbling as it follows Bilbo deeper into the copse of trees sitting north of the fortress. The sound of battle fade away, snow crunches under Bilbo’s feet, and he spies a broad tree trunk in the corner of his eye.

Metal descends toward him, he ducks.

The blade bites deep into the wood; a dried splinter pierces Bilbo’s cheek. The orc curses, tugs on the blade, but its stuck, and Bilbo wastes no time, hurls himself forward and drives Sting into the orc’s chest.

It gargles pitifully, black blood spraying from its lips, before falling forward, and Bilbo whisks Sting back just in time. The orc falls into the snow at his feet and Bilbo looks up, his breath fogging in the air; clothes sticking to his back.

“Bilbo, are you alright?” Rorimac shouts, hurrying through the woods, following on Dora’s heels. They both come to an abrupt stop a few feet away from Bilbo, paling dramatically -

And Bilbo wonders why, for the orc is dead, and he’s out of breath, but the blood on his cheek is merely from a scratch, and -

“Sweet Yavanna,” Dora mutters, staring straight past Bilbo.

Dread coils in Bilbo’s stomach. He turns.

His blood runs cold. Running through the snow-covered ground is a small, gurgling stream. Steam rises from it, hinting at the warm spring sourcing the water. 

It’s red. Bright, bloody red.

Bilbo’s stomach twists, Rorimac makes a choked noise and Dora curses. “Over there,” she says, pointing toward a barely-visible clearing at the distance.The water widens - still red - but here the source becomes visible. 

Dead bodies line the ground; float in the water. Hobbits, dwarves, rams, ponies. All viciously slain. 

“Sound the signal, Rori,” Dora orders, her voice shaking with fury. 

His pale cousin nods sharply, then reaches for the silver signal horn Bilbo hadn’t noticed before. His hands tremble at the sight before him - they made a mistake, they made a terrible mistake thinking the orcs would not slaughter everything in their way and those poor, poor souls paid the price.

The corpse to his right looks eerily like Hamfast’s elder brother. Face-up in the water lies a Boffins’ boy. Something hard settles in Bilbo’s chest. 

The horn pierces the eery quiet, loud and clear. 

Dora gives a sharp nod. “Let’s follow their tracks,” she suggests.

A part of Bilbo cautions him to protest. They should wait for back-up. Whoever slaughtered those twenty hobbits and dwarves will not be stopped by three hobbits. But Bilbo’s blood boils with rage, and right now he is willing to tear those orcs apart with his own hands. And so will Rori and Dora.

They march forward.

It doesn’t take long to track down the escaping orcs. 

The light vanishes but for a sliver on the western horizon. A sharp wind bites Bilbo’s face as he clutches Sting tightly, its blue glow reflected on the snow beneath his feet. New flakes have begun to drift from the sky, settling over bloodied tracks - but not yet enough to cover the carnage those orcs left behind.

They find another dead dwarf on the way. A silver horn still in his hand - but that arm has been cut off at the elbow. He’d not had time -

With grim frowns they continue on. 

“There,” Dora points ahead after a while. Bilbo squints. He can just make out a group of retreating backs making their way into the hills to their left. The group hurries, not bothering to cover their tracks. 

“We should circle around,” Rorimac suggests coolly. “Cut them off. We just have to stop them long enough for the dwarves to arrive.”

Bilbo nods, breathing hard. “We may not survive that,” he cautions.

“If they don’t survive either, I’m alright with that,” Dora declares grimly. 

The three hobbits share a look. Bilbo takes a deep breath - he intends to survive this battle - there are things he means to talk to Thorin about, things he means to do. Look after Frodo, visit Erebor, see new places - 

But well.

He’d likely never have gotten to doing all those things. 

So instead he’ll now do what he has to.

* * *

A cold wind tears at Bilbo cloak and hair as he, Rorimac and Dora step forward on the ledge before the orcs and men. Black silhouettes against a darkening sky, they make the group halt in their steps. Snowflakes fall silently around them.

“You shall go no further,” Rorimac declares. 

“Not before you have answered for those you have killed,” Dora adds coolly, her silver curls swaying in the wind, and a shiver runs down Bilbo’s spine. The metal of her shovel glints under the dimming light, already tainted by drying black blood. Only Sting shines brightly. 

“They should not have gotten in our way!” one of the bandits shouts. “It’s their own fault! And you little hobbits, you should do the same or we’ll do the same to you! Bow and we’ll let you live!”

They crackle, though it’s disrupted by coughing. Many of the group, Bilbo can, see, are hurt. Black and red blood taints the ground under their feet, and some can’t even find the strength to look up at the hobbits. 

Pitiful, Bilbo thinks. “No,” he says, “Bow and  _ we _ will let  _ you _ live.” He isn’t entirely certain the rest of the Shire will accept that. Dora giggles, already promising that she can imagine a number of alternative options. 

“Hear that, boys?” the man shouts, turning to his fellow bandits and orcs, gesturing madly and sending the snowflakes around him swirling. “They’ll let us live!” His voice carries a pitch of hysteria, and Bilbo sees the outlines of a host of dwarven warriors approaching on the horizon.

“I was wondering,” he says idly, “Initially I thought that sorcerer was behind all this. But he was another tool, wasn’t he?”

The man’s features twist. “He and I and all others here are thinking the same. And others will realize it too before long - you hobbits are weak and stupid! You’re ripe for the picking - and we would have cut you a good deal! We’d have let you keep your lands!”

“How generous,” Rorimac snorts, sotto voce. 

Now the dwarven armies’ approach become audible. A dull thunder, the echo of many hooves galloping through the snow-covered ground. Orcs shift, some glancing uneasily over their shoulder. 

“Refused,” Dora declares grandly, raising her shovel.

“There!” a bandit shouts in panic. One orc jumps forward, pushing two others out of the way. A high-pitched scream sounds, somebody falls to the ground - and all of a sudden the runaway group begins to rush forward again. 

With a primal scream Dora rushes forward; Bilbo’s “No, wait -” is swallowed by a multitude of roars and the shouts of the arriving dwarven army, and then an arrow whistles past his head. Dora cuts off the head of the first orc in her way, though most rush along the narrowing valley, only few trying to scramble up toward their ledge. Bilbo flings out an arm to stop Rorimac from following her -

A sharp, blinding burst of pain runs up his arm. Rorimac gasps softly, Bilbo’s mind for a moment becomes blank. Before the piercing, burning pain sets in again, and he looks to see an arrow piercing his arm, going all the way through, disappearing into the thick wood of Rorimac’s winter coat. Bilbo meets his cousin’s wide eyes, a scream stuck in his throat, the pain fading away for the panic that rises in his chest -

Then Rorimac steps back, and the arrow is jostled - the pain makes Bilbo see stars - but his cousin holds him by the shoulders, forces him to look. “Bilbo, look at me! Bilbo, I’m alright! Bilbo!” he shouts, and Bilbo sees that only the tip of the arrow is coated with blood, but red spreads already across the brown fabric of Rorimac’s coat and he can’t speak. His throat closes up; the arrow is still stuck in his arm.

“Bilbo, look at me!” Rorimac repeats frantically, eyes roving between Bilbo’s arm and his face. “We’ll get you help, just - “

They’ve been distracted for too long. An orc grabs ahold of Rorimac’s ankle, and with a scream his cousin is jerked back, and off the ledge. Bilbo’s vision spins, he is off balance, but all he can see is white and red and grey and black and it all blurs together. Suddenly there is no longer firm ground under his feet. He falls - 

And from the distance thinks he hears a very familiar voice shout his name.

Then he hits the ground. Around him he can hear the grunts, the clash of blades and metal, all merging into one suffocating cacophony. With a soft thud an orc falls into the snow before him; half of its head gone - bashed in by the blunt end of a shovel, and Bilbo spies Rorimac tottering to his feet, while Dora drives back an approaching orc with a powerful swing of her weapon of choice.

“Bilbo!” Rorimac calls, turning into his direction. Then an orc slips between them; not seeing Bilbo, but focused on the two hobbits, and Bilbo reaches out, but the movement sends a spike of pain up his arm. He grits his teeth, tries to reach for Sting, lying next to his still working right hand in the snow - and just as his fingers brush the familiar metal, an arrow pierces the orcs throat.

“This way!” Tauriel sharply calls out to the hobbits. Bilbo can’t see her, but her voice comes from above. She must be near the ruined fortress still, perhaps she and Kili and the other archers have climbed the old towers to have a better vantage point.

They’ll get Rorimac and Dora out. Relief floods Bilbo and he lets his head drop back into the snow. The snow under his cheek is soft and cold and the corners of his vision begin to blacken while the pain begins to gradually fade, and a part of Bilbo longs for the relief, the darkness.

“Bilbo!” Thorin shouts as he charges into the middle of the small canyon, right into the masses of fighting men and bandits. His coat swirls behind him like wings; his hair has come loose - and almost as an afterthought he cuts down the man that tries to sneak up behind him. 

“Thorin, wait!” Dwalin shouts, but Bilbo can’t see him; the orcs and men have closed ranks again. Too many, he thinks dizzily, there are too many. The valley is too narrow, they can’t fight here.

“Stop the arrows!” another, familiar voice shouts. “Stop! Stop! The King’s in there!”

“Bilbo!” And the thud is close, close enough for Bilbo to open his eyes and see Thorin looking down at him, just a step away. Blind to the battle raging around them, Thorin drops to his knees at Bilbo’s side. He reaches out, and his expression is so tentative, so anxious, that Bilbo’s insides warm with affection.

“I’m…” he rasps, but finds he can barely do more than coughing. Behind Thorin, two bandits fall to the ground, pierced by eight arrows. More fly, covering Thorin’s back. 

“I’ll get you out of here,” Thorin vows, determination crossing his features. He brushes a hand over Bilbo’s brow, smiles. “I’ll get you out!” He carefully draws Bilbo into a sitting position, leaning the hobbit against his shoulder and a part of Bilbo wants to insist that there is nothing wrong with his legs.

But his vision keeps blurring, and he is not sure if there are two or three orcs running toward them, blades raised high. Two fall, pierced by arrows, and at the very last moment Bilbo realizes that it’s no vision, no figment of his imagination, and despite Dwalin’s warning scream, Thorin won’t react in time.

His blood surges. Faster than they moved before, Bilbo’s fingers tighten around Sting’s cold hilt and lift the blade. His strength is negligible; his arm shaking with the effort of lifting the small elvish blade from the ground. 

It’s enough. Sting slices through the armor and the skin of the running orc like butter. With a choked gurgle, the orc drops its rusty knife to the ground, followed by the heavy thump of its heavy body. Thorin whirls around at the thud, his eyes wide and Orcrist ready, only to see the orc grows still, Sting buried deep in its stomach. 

He sucks in a sharp breath, while Bilbo directs a light-headed smile at him, the world spinning ever faster. 

“Let’s get out of here,” Thorin says breathlessly, swiping a stray curl from his face before gathering Bilbo in his arms. The hobbit flinches as he is lifted; his left arm numb but with an undercurrent of throbbing, gut-wrenching pain, and he dares not look down at the dangling limb. 

Instead he buries his face in the thick furs of Thorin’s coat, inhales the warm, familiar scent and allows himself to close his eyes just for a moment. 

* * *

When he opens them, he sits wrapped in a familiar cloak in the corner of a cold, run-down building. The bare stones of the walls have seen ages, barely holding the weight of the half-collapsed roof above them. The dwarves, clever as they are, have repaired it enough to keep out wind and snow.

“... move later. This is no good shelter.” The words drift over to Bilbo and he sluggishly blinks.

“...wait until we have made sure none got away.”

“As you say,” and the dark shape that stomps away may or may not be Dwalin. Bilbo is distracted by a cheerful greeting courtesy of Kili. The young dwarf had been sitting beside him the entire time, and now gently waves a hand before Bilbo’s face.

“Awake?” he asks. “Do you remember who I am? Who you are? Where we are?”

Bilbo’s head throbs angrily at Kili’s enthusiasm, and his voice comes out more coarse and guttural than he intends to. “Of course I…” and then fails, something stuck in his throat. While Bilbo works to clear the obstacle, Dora’s no less cheerful tones drift over.

“Oh, he knows, Master Dwarf,” she replies. “It’s written all over that shining countenance.” Rorimac chuckles, Kili laughs, and Bilbo directs a wary glare toward them. 

“I thought so,” Kili declares before turning back to Bilbo and his face softens. “But are you alright? You took quite a fall and that injury - well, Tauriel said it should heal and that you were fairly lucky.”

Bilbo glances down, but his arm is hidden by another cloak laid across his shoulders. He can’t feel it at all, which is better than the pain. And if Tauriel looked at it, he won’t worry for now. 

“I’m quite, well, I will be alright, I suppose,” Bilbo says to Kili, warmed at the honest concern. “How are the others?” Dora is sporting a sling and has several scratches on her face, but looks no less lively. Rorimac seems pale, but he is laughing. His leg, Bilbo can see, is bandaged up to the hip, and he has a matching bandage wrapped around his head.

“The fall, cousin,” Rorimac tells him as he catches Bilbo’s eyes. “The orc that pulled me down got the short end of the stick. It broke its neck - I broke my leg.” He shrugs, but Bilbo can tell he is shaken. 

“The arrow?” Bilbo asks, still remembering that blood-freezing moment when the arrowhead disappeared into Rorimac’s coat. 

“Just a scrape,” the other hobbit replies. “You, however,” he shakes his head. “It wouldn’t have been just a scrape if not for you, Bilbo.”

He glances to Bilbo’s hidden arm. It sends an unpleasant tingle down Bilbo’s spine - he cannot feel the limb and is currently quite glad for it. 

“That was luck,” he replies. And truly, he thinks, it was. He doesn’t fancy having his arm pierced, but he doesn’t regret it - it did save Rorimac’s life in the end. 

“Still,” Rorimac returns. “I’d hug you if the Miss had not threatened to dismember the first person to jostle you.”

“And the dwarf King will help her with that,” Dora joins in. “You know, for all that everybody always insists dwarves and elves hate each other, I think these here get along quite well.” 

She nods in the direction of Tauriel, who is deep in discussion with Himril, two other dwarves and an elf Bilbo doesn’t recognize. Kili elbows his way between Tauriel and her fellow elf with a bright smile, and with a roll of her eyes she returns to the discussion. 

Bilbo feels a smile pull at his own lips. “This constitutes a special case, I believe.”

Dora raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Before Bilbo can launch into the tale of their misadventures in Mirkwood, a familiar voice breaks into the conversation and Bilbo looks up to see Thorin striding over toward them. His braids have come undone, and speckles of orc blood fleck his face, but his eyes shine with a bright flame that warms Bilbo’s heart. He shifts his body, leaning forward with what must be a rather woozy smile.

“Thorin,” he greets. Whether his head spins from exhaustion or elation, he cannot say. 

“Are you quite alright?” Thorin asks, dropping down into a crouch right before Bilbo. His gaze falls to Bilbo’s arm and a grimace crosses his face. “I’m sorry this-”

Bilbo interrupts with a shake of his head.  “It’s quite alright.”

“We decided to chase after them on our own,” Dora adds solemnly. “After we saw what they had done, we knew we had to stop them.”

“You were three,” Fili protests over Thorin’s shoulder; his eyes wide. “They were thirty! And all armed!”

Bilbo can feel Thorin’s concerned gaze rest upon him, but before he can give an answer, Dora speaks again. “Yes. But all we needed to do was to stop them from running for long enough that you could get there.”

Thorin pales at the implication. Bilbo reaches out with his uninjured hand to touch Thorin’s upper arm. “You saw what they did.” He seeks the King’s gaze and holds it, wishing Thorin to understand. The King must have passed that little clearing - 

Bilbo can still see the red water of the river. 

Thorin’s lips twitch unhappily. “I saw,” he confirms. 

“We were not prepared for such a massive force to attempt an escape to the north,” Fili adds quietly. “It was a miscalculation.”  One that cost them lives, Bilbo thinks, but Fili appears drawn enough. 

Dora sighs. “Be that as it may, are we going to spend the night here?” 

Bilbo can feel the fatigue creeping through his body as well. He could sleep here - it’s not comfortable, but he is warm and utterly exhausted. Thorin, however, rises and shakes his head. “No,” he says, “Once we have collected the bodies of the fallen and made certain we got all the orcs we’ll leave.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please feel free to let me know what you think :3 Either here or over on [tumblr](http://paranoidfridge.tumblr.com)


	8. The Journey Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The battle has been won. And after a while, winter begins to fade away. It brings relief, but also the departure of the dwarves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big, big thank you to [@seaweedredandbrown](https://tmblr.co/mdxL32j4JMIxrB9e8UfhLfA) for betaing the monster, to [hobbitystmarymorstan](https://tmblr.co/ma3E5boMNDdgHnEMe38a0Tg) and [rutobuka2](https://tmblr.co/m2VIQbdnKJuXg4IhyknsKmA) for further help and handholding.  
> With stunning artwork by the fantastic [catofcream](https://tmblr.co/mOi0rIt9X61nlb5uR4vNw1A)  
> 
> 
>   * [Preview ](http://catofcream.tumblr.com/post/144306930719/a-little-preview-of-my-collaboration-with-the)
>   * [Bilbo and Frodo](http://catofcream.tumblr.com/post/134886179634/this-is-a-sort-of-wip-that-ill-never-finish-for)  
> 
>   * [Bilbo and Thorin pining for each other](http://catofcream.tumblr.com/post/144420603989/amidst-the-winds-of-winter-chapter-1-by) (+ Poster)
>   * [Bilbo and Frodo encountering a group of orcs ](http://catofcream.tumblr.com/post/144701351089/amidst-the-winds-of-winter-by)(chapter 3)
>   * [Thorin hurrying an unconscious Bilbo to shelter](http://catofcream.tumblr.com/post/145043510599/amidst-the-winds-of-winter-by) (chapter 5)  
> 
> 

> 
> More amazing art by the lovely [teaxdragon](https://tmblr.co/mPuuWzHKh_q4vKEiyCNWUtQ)
> 
>   * [Poster: Bilbo in his fur coat](http://teaxdragon.tumblr.com/post/144674272902/amidst-the-winds-of-winter-by-paranoidfridge)
>   * [Bilbo triggering the fire trap](http://teaxdragon.tumblr.com/post/144976664547/amidst-the-winds-of-winter-by-paranoidfridge#) (chapter 5)  
> 
> 

> 
> Fantastic art by the wonderful [hobbitystmarymorstan](https://tmblr.co/ma3E5boMNDdgHnEMe38a0Tg)
> 
>   * [Bilbo facing down the orcs](https://hobbitystmarymorstan.tumblr.com/post/144843682640/for-paranoidfridge-s-amidst-the-winds-of)  
> 
> 

> 
> And two wonderful pieces by the magical [rutobuka](http://rutobuka2.tumblr.com/)
> 
>   * [Bilbo giving Frodo the ring | Thorin holding Bilbo's hand as he heals](http://rutobuka2.tumblr.com/post/145562105119/my-illustrations-for-paranoidfridges-amidst-the)  
> 
> 


Fire lights the dark, cloudless night sky over the fields between Hobbiton and Tuckborough. The night is freezing, Bilbo hands have grown numb - but neither he, nor any of the others here are feeling the cold. He doesn’t even feel the healing injury on his arm - it remains wrapped in thick bandages and will do so for some time.

It has become easier to move his hand, though his finger remain stiff and Tauriel had warned him it may take years to regain his former dexterity. Well, at least it’s his left hand, Bilbo had joked, but secretly worried about how to manage the tasks of everyday life. He will find a way, he knows.

And such an injury is a small price to pay after all. 

In a wide circle, dwarves and hobbits stand around the blazing funeral pyres, sensing neither the heat of the flickering flames nor the icy cold of the winter winds. The ground is too cold to bury the fallen hobbits. The journey to Erebor is too long to ferry the felled dwarven warriors back home. 

Fire, then, will  send off their spirits, after the dwarven rites had been completed and the Thain spoken of bravery, peace and remembrance. Once the snow clears, the hobbits will plant trees on this land - one for each dead. Erebor will send a stone tableau to commemorate the fallen.

Another one will be put up at the Northmoor to recall the battle. 

There will not be any markers put up at Fornost. The dwarves saw that the ruins were destroyed - they will provide no shelter to future bandits or orcs.

Somebody on Bilbo’s left is crying quietly and he turns to see old Lila Boffins supporting her crying husband. Her own eyes are red-rimmed, and he thinks of the body he saw floating in the red water. It was a brave death.

But their son is dead nonetheless, and hobbits do not share dwarves’ idealization of glorious death in battle. 

Thorin grasps Bilbo’s frozen fingers. His breath fogs in the air, and Bilbo looks to him, sees him gazing at the fires, his head held high. Overhead stars shine and their light reflects on Thorin’s hair, and Bilbo’s heart clenches.

He looks quite kingly.

That reminds Bilbo of what must come. The dwarves, Thorin announced to the Thain upon their return, will stay until spring. After that they must return to Erebor - their mountain awaits. Thorin’s and Bilbo’s paths must separate once more.

Who knows if they will ever see each other again?

Bilbo’s heart rebels against that idea. He could go to Erebor, too - but there is Frodo to consider. His family in the Shire. Even without the fauntling’s situation, Thorin is King under the Mountain. The dwarves … Bilbo may have earned his place among the company, but he doubts all those dwarves that do not know him would so easily accept him at their King’s side.

He’ll enjoy the time they have, Bilbo tells himself as he watches the fires begin to burn out. It’s all anyone can do, really.

“Shall we go home?” Thorin asks once the flames have become embers and most hobbits have left. “Your hands are cold.”

Bilbo smiles softly and grasps Thorin’s hand, for the moment deciding to ignore who may be watching. “Let’s. Go home, I mean.”

And it fills him with warmth to hear Thorin call Bag End home. He only wishes it wasn’t temporary.

* * *

The days start to grow longer. While it does not grow warmer, it seems the sun now shines more often. With dwarves guarding the roads, the wolves pose hardly a danger, and winter almost becomes a cheerful affair.

For the first time in a long while, Bag End brims with life. First its front yard, then its backyard, then the road outside are turned into a wild exhibition of snow sculptures. Frodo enthusiastically introduces both dwarves and elves to the fine art of building snowmen. It naturally results in a competition between elves and dwarves of who can build the more sophisticated sculptures. 

Bilbo’s injury heals well - he can take off the bandages, goes back to help with the cooking. Though to his dismay he finds that nowadays Thorin has almost grown quicker in slicing onions than Bilbo is. Both, however, are slow, and most days Dudo or Asphodel command the kitchen.

Bilbo and Thorin spend many evenings in the library - the room they claimed for their personal use. And despite the waggling eyebrows and innuendo, the first time they share a bed all they do is exchange kisses before falling asleep curled around each other. 

(The second time involves a little less sleep). 

And then, one morning, Bilbo opens his windows to see water trickling down from the roof. Snow still covers the lands, high as the fence on his front porch - but it has begun to melt. A sense of relief lies in the air.

Finally, this winter is starting to end. 

Already the sunlight feels warmer. 

Bilbo’s heart clenches. Soon the dwarves will have to leave. Rufus, Asphodel, Dudo and the children will all return to their Buckland homes. Bag End will once again be empty.

He sighs and turns away.

As he approaches the kitchen, he catches the sounds of a conversation. The deep rumble of Thorin’s voice fills his own chest with warmth. 

“... dwarves?”

“I would love to go and see Erebor!” Frodo exclaims enthusiastically. “It must be fantastic! Uncle Bilbo showed me all the paintings - I really want to see it one day!”

Thorin chuckles, and Bilbo lets himself into the kitchen. 

“And I’m certain you can,” he tells Frodo. “But it’s a bit of a trip to make.” And hobbits are not as inclined to travel once they grow older. 

“But Mister Thorin could take me!” Frodo says, turning wide-eyes onto Bilbo. “Or we could go with them when they go back! It’s going to be very safe with them.”

“Frodo…” Bilbo begins.

“We’d make sure nothing happened to you and your uncle Bilbo,” Thorin promises, smiling at Frodo. 

Bilbo would like nothing better than to go with Thorin. But he doesn’t think Asphodel and Rufus would approve. It’s one thing if he left - now that he’s set to take over as Frodo’s guardian, there is no more room for adventures.

“Maybe once you’re a little older,” Bilbo compromises.

He turns to the kettle in order not to see Frodo’s face fall. His own heart sinks, too. 

* * *

Before long comes that fateful day. First a small squadron of warriors with urgent business in Erebor takes their leave. Hobbits make short trips to their Buckland homes in order to restock their pantries. Once again, the matter of Frodo’s guardianship is brought up - and now they all agree that the boy would best stay with Bilbo. 

Once Spring is there, Asphodel and Rufus will return to Buckland with their own children and Frodo will remain in Bag End. Though they are both warmly welcome to visit Buckland whenever they wish.

“I don't think we'd made it through the winter without you, Bilbo,” Rufus tells him as they prepare dinner one night. 

Bilbo doesn't look up from where he is cutting the carrots, and outside they can hear Frodo and Milo laugh as Dwalin does voices.

“I didn't do that much,” Bilbo replies. Other hobbits fought the same he did. All he had was better armor and a real sword. 

Rufus chuckles. “If not for you, the dwarves would not have come,” he says mildly. “I think you saved everyone here.”

Bilbo shudders. If Thorin had not come and the bandits and orcs gotten to carry out their plan - he doesn't think they would have lasted. Although the hobbits might have been able to drive their assailants out, it would have left nothing but devastation in their wake. 

“A pity they can't stay,” Rufus comments.

Bilbo sighs. He wishes they could. “They have their own home to look after.”

“I know,” Rufus replies as he reaches over to add some onions to the stew. “Once they have left, the world will forget about us again, and maybe it's for the better - if anything this winter showed that we hobbits are not cut out for the violent politics of everyone else.”

He shrugs and adds with a small grin: “Well, most of us. I suppose there are exceptions.”

And before Bilbo can protest, Rufus announces dinner is ready and the kitchen gets stormed by dwarves and hobbits alike.

Not too long after, reports come in saying the ice on the Brandywine up in the Northmoor is growing thinner. And then, as the snow slowly starts to melt, the dwarves begin their preparations to depart. 

“I need to go and speak with the Thain soon,” Thorin says as he and Bilbo march through the snow, both bundled up warmly against the cold. The sun shines and it's warm enough that the hobbits have set up a small market in front of the Green Dragon - mostly as an excuse to get together and drink in the evening.

“We will have to leave, but I wanted to ask for permission to install a Raven station here. They can look after themselves, though I can't entirely promise they won't steal one pie or another,” Thorin continues with a chuckle and Bilbo recalls the majestic black birds.

“Do they fly this far?” he asks.

“They prefer not to in winter, but they carry all communication between Ered Luin and Erebor. The distance isn't an issue.” Thorin pauses to inspect a snowman sitting on the roadside, which wears a dwarven helmet.

“I want to make sure that, should help be required again, you can write to us directly,” Thorin continues. “All letters would arrive much faster.”

Bilbo's heart skips a beat. He wants to say he will write more often, but in truth not having Thorin there will just not be the same. “I will miss you,” he says instead. 

Thorin turns to look at him; and despite a small smile, his expression is terribly sad. “So will I,” he returns quietly and reaches out with one gloved hand to caress Bilbo’s cheek, not caring that they are but all out in plain sight. Only a bush bending under the weight of snow keeps them from being directly seen from the Green Dragon.

“I… wish to, want to ask you to come with me. Your presence is missed in Erebor, and I want to promise that you will lack nothing,” Thorin says as Bilbo leans into the touch. “But this is your home and I will not rip you from it a second time.”

For a moment they remain still, each caught in their own emotions. Then Thorin lets his hand sink and Bilbo straightens, chuckling dryly.

“Then how about you come to the Shire? You already look quite at home in grandpa Mungo’s armchair.”

They resume their walk; now close enough that their hands brush against each other.

Thorin laughs lightly. “It's a nice armchair. I understand now why you missed it during our journey.” 

“Hello Master Baggins, Master Thorin!” Somebody shouts and both wave back.

“I think I would like living here,” Thorin continues. And then he adds with a shrug: “Who knows. Maybe in a few years, when things have settled, Fili can take over, and I'll come here to retire.”

Bilbo's heart warms as he imagines Thorin sitting on Bag End’s front porch, smoking a pipe, his hair more silver than black. “You'd be most welcome,” he returns quietly. 

And he regrets that he cannot offer to come to Erebor in return.

* * *

Three days later, on a sunny morning Thorin, Fili, Dwalin, and Bilbo ride to Tuckborough. Only a thin layer of snow still covers grass and fields; the road itself is wet and muddy and the rams enjoy splashing through it. 

It's almost warm outside. Bilbo unbuttons his coat after a while, and Thorin takes his off before they reach town. They arrive in time to witness the spectacular meltdown of Bilbo’s youngest niece at finding her favourite snowman melting. 

Her sister gleefully decides a mudfight is a proper distractions and Thorin, Fili, and Bilbo make it inside just in time. Dwalin they lose after he foolishly promises to teach the girls how to built a decent mud fort.

Adamanta watches the scene with a smile before she ushers the three into the Thain’s study. After everybody has taken a seat, and been provided with tea and cake, they arrive at the heart of the matter. Once the dwarves leave, the defense of the Shire is once again thrust into the hands of the bounders.

"They usually do an admirable job," the Thain says lightly, though Bilbo can see that this winter left its mark. New lines have formed on his already aged face - and like all of them, he has grown thinner. But now they have rich cake and hopefully in a matter of months all hobbits will be round again and the horrors of this winter forgotten.

Thorin frowns. "What if others come? The Shire is wealthy and relatively unprotected..."

"Not quite," the Thain shakes his head. "If you recall, our location is our protection. There is no other place nearby that like Fornost could house bandits and orcs - I believe we will be quite safe."

It is optimistic. But then again, Bilbo acknowledges, hobbits don't have a choice. The isolation of their lands and the little knowledge the outside world has of their kind is their strongest protection after all. 

"Well, still, I do have a suggestion should future emergencies arise," Thorin starts. and Gerontius Took is most pleased to hear about Thorin’s plan to set up a Raven station. 

“I think we can spare some corn for birds,” he laughs when Thorin explains the hobbits needn't do anything. 

“Why don't we take a look at some possible locations?” The Thain suggests and stands. Bilbo makes to follow, but his grandmother beckons him to stay.

Adamanta reaches across the table to take Bilbo’s hand after Thorin, Fili and the Thain have disappeared through the doorway. 

“He loves you,” she says. 

Bilbo grimaces. “I know.”

“Then you should go with him,” his grandmother tells him.

Bilbo sighs. “I can’t. Frodo will stay with me once Rufus and Asphodel got everything sorted out. I can’t -”

A small smile plays on her lips. “It is highly unusual, indeed. But I think your King would make certain you both got to Erebor safely.”

Bilbo’s heart hitches. He’s not sure he heard correctly. “...both?” he asks, weakly.

She chuckles. “Yes. While I do not get to see young Frodo often, I did spend some time talking to Gorbadoc, and though we both think he’s holding up admirably, we also think that a change of scenery may do him some good.”

Bilbo’s eyes widen. It was a scandal when he left - to suggest taking a child out of the Shire - 

“His parents have not been dead for a year yet,” Adamanta continues. “And then this winter happened. Frodo is a bright lad, but I believe the Shire does not hold very good memories for him right now. Also your dwarves adore him and he likes them. Why not take him to Erebor for a while? Let him recover there - and once he’s older, you can always come back.”

* * *

His heart still flutters when Bilbo returns home, well ahead of Fili and Thorin. It’s not realistic, the rational part of his mind tries to insist. It’s impossible, not good.

But his grandmother would not have suggested it then. 

If she, Gerontius and Gorbadoc all agreed - 

Hope dances in his chest, fast and mad and completely unhinged, and it is all Bilbo can do to keep himself together. His mind is a mad sea of emotions and thoughts, few of the complete, many scattered and racing. 

There are a myriad of things to consider -

Frodo’s education. What will the dwarves think? Will the lad have friends of his age? Will Bilbo be accepted? How is Balin doing? Did the dwarves clear out the treasury? How will winter in Erebor be? How many children are in the mountain? Could Frodo go to Dale? Has the land recovered? Was Laketown rebuilt? Was the path through Mirkwood repaired? Can Frodo make the journey? 

Bilbo crosses the room and disappears into the corridor leading to Bag End’s back rooms. Frodo is not in his, but Bilbo finds the lad in the library, playing with the dwarven figurines. 

“Frodo, my boy,” Bilbo begins and sits down in the armchair next to where Frodo has set the figurines out on the thick carpet. He should really have a longer conversation. He shouldn’t spring this on the boy like that.

“You said you’d want to go and see Erebor,” Bilbo says, remembering the conversation between Frodo and Thorin he overheard just yesterday. “Maybe go with Thorin.”

Frodo tilts his head, wrinkling his forehead. “You said we couldn’t,” he replies.

Bilbo grimaces. “Yes, well, I thought we couldn’t.”

And Frodo’s eyes light up with glowing enthusiasm. “Do you mean we can, uncle Bilbo? Can we go to Erebor?”

“Yes, we can, but only if you want to,” Bilbo says, fighting to keep his voice even and serious. “It is a very long journey and you wouldn’t see Milo, or Aunt Asphodel and Uncle Rufus or anybody here for a very long time.”

Frodo contemplates it for a short moment. “Mister Thorin said we could always visit.”

“Erebor is much further away than Buckland, my lad,” Bilbo cautions.

“Well, either I don’t see Mister Thorin and Dwalin and Fili and Kili for a very long time, or I don’t see Aunt Asphodel and Milo for a long time,” Frodo says thoughtfully. “And I think I already spent far more time with them, so I want to go to Erebor.”

Bilbo laughs. It’s not quite the reply he expected, but he won’t fault Frodo’s logic. Instead he reaches out to ruffle Frodo’s hair. “Then I suppose we will go.”

Down the hall, he hears the front door opening.

* * *

“Bilbo!” Thorin shouts as he comes through the doorway, looking worriedly left and right before even having taken off his cloak and boots. “Is everything alright?”

Dwalin follows with a worried frown. Instead of Bilbo, Kili steps out of the kitchen, a cupcake in his hand and Tauriel following behind him.

“What is going on?” Tauriel asks, looking at the dwarves with concern.

“Isn't Bilbo here yet?” Thorin asks, looking around wildly.

“He left abruptly,” Fili explains. “We don't know why.”

“Nothing to worry about!” Bilbo shouts down the corridor and then comes into sight, his hair messed and a wide grin on his face.

“I had to ask somebody a very important question.” He explains and his eyes sparkle.

“Frodo?” Kili raises his eyebrows. “What did you -”

“You're coming with us!” Fili exclaims abruptly. “Are you? That's what you asked him!”

Thorin's eyes grow wider and wider. His heart thunders - hope spreads through his chest like bliss, though he doesn't quite dare to believe it yet. But Bilbo’s smile only widens and he doesn't think he's ever seen Bilbo look so happy or excited.

“We are!” Bilbo declares laughing. “We are! My grandmother talked to me, and really, it's fine! They even think it's going to be good for Frodo!”

“That's wonderful,” Tauriel congratulates.

Bilbo wipes at his eyes. “I can't quite believe it yet.” He shakes his head, and then abruptly halts, turning back to Thorin with wide eyes. “I mean, if we're welcome, that is.”

“Of course!” Fili and Kili shout simultaneously. Dwalin nods and Thorin breaks into a warm, tender smile.

“You are much more than welcome.”

* * *

After that they are all caught in a flurry of activity. Legal guardianship of Frodo needs to be transferred to Bilbo who also needs to settle what is to be done with Bag End in his absence. Kili oversees the packing, though he sometimes finds himself out of his depth.

“Which one is grandpa Mungo’s armchair?” he asks Bilbo in passing. “You have so many…”

“Why are we taking the silver spoons? Bilbo, Erebor has more than enough silver spoons.”

Determination crosses Bilbo’s features. “These … are special.” He is stopped from explaining about Lobelia's and his ongoing spoon-feud by Frodo calling him over. Which may be for the best, because despite having now spent a long time in the Shire, Kili may not entire understand the social workings among Bilbo's kin.  


"What is it, Frodo?" Bilbo asks as he follows the child to his room. It's a mess of toys and clothes, but that is the current state of nearly all rooms of Bag End. Bilbo's doesn't exactly enjoy it, yet he has some faith in his dwarves' skill at tidying it all up at the end. 

"I think I'm done packing!" the child declares proudly, pointing to three large chests.

Bilbo raises an eyebrow and casts a pointed look toward the pile of clothes on the floor. "You're not taking any clothes?" 

"There was no space anymore," Frodo returns with a frown. "Also, maybe we'll need new clothes anyway! Dwarf clothes!"

A smile crosses Bilbo's face as he imagines Frodo in a miniature tunic and fur coat. There might, he has to admit, be some truth to Frodo's assessment. "But they'll have to be made first," he says instead. "Do you plan to spend your first weeks in Erebor naked?"

"Oh," Frodo seems to reconsider.

"I'll ask Fili if they have another chest," Bilbo says and reaches out to run a hand through Frodo's hair. "But you have to promise me you will pack only what you need."

He knows he will need to recheck that chest, but for now it should suffice. And Frodo does not enthusiastically enough to send his curls flying. "I will, uncle Bilbo! Pants, shirts, my good vest. Oh, and mittens, a scarf and a hat!"

"Very good," Bilbo commends. "How about a hairbrush?"

Frodo grimaces. "Do I have to?"

"Hair is very important to dwarves," Bilbo explains.  


Frodo purses his lip, but doesn't protest. Instead he reaches into his pocket and his eyes light up. "Oh, uncle Bilbo! I completely forgot! I still have your invisibility ring!"

Abruptly something dark and twisted rises in Bilbo's chest. His stomach turns, and there is _need_ burning in his chest. The ring is his, he needs to have it -

It sits there, innocently, on Frodo's small palm. 

A shudder runs down Bilbo's spine. "No," he says, swallowing down something bitter. "Keep it for now." 

He forces himself to smile. It's for the best, he tells himself. In case of doubt the ring can save Frodo again - it is of more use to him.

* * *

 

 

On the day before they are due to leave, the hobbits throw a giant party. It's still a bit too cold to be outside, but even the Green Dragon does not possess enough space to house nearly the entire Shire. So everybody bundles up and after the second round of free ale nobody feels the cold anymore.

Since many hobbits still have not returned to their homes in Buckland or the smaller settlement (waiting for them to warm up after having stood empty during the worst of winter); the square under the Party Tree seems to be bursting. Along with the majority of the dwarven host as well as some elves and men, it likely is the largest party the Shire has ever seen.

Cheerful, loud, and slightly off-key music echoes over the hills of Hobbiton accompanied by an even more off-key singing that has even Bofur shaking his head. 

“You think that singing would've kept those orcs at bay,” he tells Bilbo over his steaming mug of mulled wine.

Bilbo raises his own mug as a toast of commiseration. “Wait until Lobelia demands her solo.” She hasn't done so in decades; last did when she was in her thirties, but it had been a formative experience for all onlookers. “She used to be able to crack glass.”

Bofur pales a little at this description, and Thorin leans forward with a conspiratorial nod. “Maybe it's time for some dwarven songs?”

A gleam lights up Bofur’s eyes. “It most certainly is!” He downs his mug in one go and stands. “It's high time!”

And indeed fairly soon the tune changes to something different, but just as fast-paced and cheerful. The hobbits already dancing don't let the unfamiliar melody stop them - after all, there's nothing that won't be a fit for a good quick jig.

Bilbo watches it all with a small smile on his face. He won't be there for the spring and summer parties this year, and that is a small pang in his heart. 

“Shall we dance?” Thorin asks out of nowhere and Bilbo looks at him in surprise. The King under the Mountain smiles and brushes his fingers past Bilbo’s.

“Your hands are getting cold. Maybe some movement is in order.” 

“Very well,” Bilbo agrees, laughing. He takes his mug and finishes his mulled wine in one long swallow and stands. “Alright,” he declares as Thorin climbs to his feet as well. “How does one dance to this?”

Thorin's smile widens. “Just follow my lead.” He reaches out to take one of Bilbo's hands and leads them away. There isn't much space left - every inch here is crammed either with hobbits eating and drinking about tables and benches or by people enthusiastically dancing along to more or less familiar melodies. 

Thorin turns out surprisingly gifted - or perhaps they simply know each other well. Bilbo has little trouble following Thorin’s clues, and at some point finds himself nearly pressed up against Thorin’s chest. It’s too close to be proper, but sends a lovely tingling down his spine. 

“You dance well,” he whispers, tilting his head up to look at Thorin.

His chuckle make Bilbo’s hair stir. “It was once an important part of my education. And I found the dwarves of Erebor still like to dance.”

“Those must be splendid celebrations you have there,” Bilbo replies. If Erebor recovered but a fragment of her glory in the years since her reclamation, it must be glorious indeed. He remembers the halls made of marble and the golden chandeliers. 

“The greatest,” Thorin replies, and pulls back to look Bilbo in the eye. His own seem to sparkle in the lantern light, and Bilbo’s heart fills with warmth and affection “Though the best are usually those that feature Bofur dancing on the tables,” he adds with mirth. 

Bilbo casts a sideway glance to the fellow dwarves. But the tables are empty. So far. 

“They will, in time,” Thorin promises.

“And I think a number of hobbits will join them,” Bilbo adds, eyeing of all people Otho Sackeville-Baggins twirling rather drunkenly across the lawn. “Don’t worry,” he adds. “We have sturdy tables.”

Thorin chuckles at that and spins Bilbo around.

Kili interrupts his mad and graceful romp over the dancefloor with Tauriel to call over “you’re doing good, Bilbo!”, and then spins on with a loud ‘whoop’.  Tauriel follows, much more gracefully, but hobbits and dwarves alike dodge out of their way. 

“I do suppose it’s good knowing these dances when you’re going to be married to a King,” Dudo Baggins drunkenly comments from a bench and raises his mug in a toast. Bilbo nearly stumbles over Thorin’s feet - but the King manages to catch him. 

“Ma-”

“Yeah, congrats Bilbo!” Dora shouts loud enough for everybody to hear and within moments everybody is congratulating Bilbo. On what the fewest seem to know, but an opportunity to toast is always welcome. The fact that Bilbo blushes and stammers makes it all the more interesting.

“I’m terribly sorry, Thorin,” Bilbo says when the last well-wisher has stumbled on to either continue dancing or fetch more ale. “This … well, I guess this was a misunderstanding. You know how fast these can arise, and, well -”

If only the ground could open up and swallow him.

Thorin doesn’t seem flustered, instead he laughs gently, and Bilbo flushes hotly as he realizes that during none of this has Thorin ever let go of his hand. 

“I don’t mind,” Thorin says lightly. “They aren’t wrong. I would like to marry you - but I know it’s a bit complicated with our respective positions and everything. Maybe one day we’ll sort that out, but until then I’ll gladly have you at my side.” 

Blood rises to Bilbo’s cheeks, and he can’t stop himself from grinning or his eyes from burning. 

“Gladly, Thorin, gladly,” he says as he throws his arm around Thorin’s neck and kisses him right in front of the entire Shire.

Most of the hobbits miss it. Bofur and Dora have climbed a table and started a doing a jig. And that is much more interesting that Bilbo Baggins’ romantic entanglements.

* * *

The following morning Bilbo is awoken by a very enthusiastic Frodo. 

“Uncle, uncle!” the child exclaims, “The dwarves said to wake you! Breakfast is ready and then we’re leaving!”

His eyes sparkle, while Bilbo’s head aches. “I'll be there in a moment,” he promises and simultaneously curses himself. He should not have accepted that last drink yesterday - or danced quite so long. 

Frodo has already run out of the room again by the time Bilbo has managed to sit upright, rubbing his aching head. His stomach rolls a bit; though he thinks he will be fine after a while. Especially since the smell of breakfast actually makes him hungry.

“Bilbo?” Thorin raps on the door left half-open in Frodo’s wake and then lets himself in. He's already dressed in all his layers, a warm coat - but thoughtfully kept off his boots. “Do you mind if I step out for a moment? Fili and Kili went to oversee the host preparing, but I'd like to look in as well.”

“Not at all,” Bilbo shakes his head, and his voice comes out rather hoarse.

Thorin smiles in sympathy. “Nori hast left some brew for hangovers in the kitchen. I don't know where he got it or what's in it, but it does work miracles.”

Bilbo perks up. “That sounds exactly like what I need.”

He helps himself to Nori’s brew first, and a good breakfast after. With everybody busy overseeing the last of their packing, he ends up alone in the kitchen. It’s strange, he thinks as he surveys the table, how often he has sat here before. Looked out of the window, cooked on his stove. 

Now he will leave it all behind. 

Not for the first time. And probably not forever. 

Like his grandmother said, Bag End will always be his home. But a part of him undeniably aches for the mountain. He will miss this, he thinks, carrying his plate over to the sink while feeling strangely wistful. 

“Bilbo,” Thorin ducks into the kitchen, travel coat slung over his shoulders. “Are you ready?”

Bilbo nods. He takes one last look at his kitchen, then dons a smile and steps outside. 

Fresh green peeks out from the melting patches of snow. From between fluffy white clouds the sun shines down warmly, and the air smells of spring. Frodo is bouncing with excitement, sitting on a pony with Kili, and a small gaggle of hobbits has gathered to see them off. 

“Have a good journey!” somebody calls. 

“Feel free to visit again next winter!” 

“You’re always welcome!”

It is amazing, Bilbo thinks as he climbs atop his pony, how much this winter changed. His fellow hobbits, usually so wary of strangers, are now treating the dwarves like friends. He even spies an outrageously patterned umbrella at the back of the small crowd, and has to shake his head in disbelief. 

“Bilbo?” Thorin inquires, bringing his pony next to Bilbo’s.

“It’s quite alright,” Bilbo replies easily and casts a glance to the sky. “Well, I guess we should get going? It’s a long road ahead, after all.”

_ The End _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is always such a weird feeling to write "the End" under a story. One the one hand - accomplishment. It is done, finished. On the other hand - it was fun to write, fun to post, and see people react. But alas - I do hope this last chapter wraps up the story, and if you enjoyed it, or want to share your opinion: please feel free to leave a review or hit me up over on [tumblr](http://paranoidfridge.tumblr.com).

**Author's Note:**

> I'd be happy to hear your thoughts, either here or over on [tumblr](www.paranoidfridge.tumblr.com). Next chapter will follow soon!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Hold Fast](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6951454) by [hobbitystmarymorstan (DraloreShimare)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DraloreShimare/pseuds/hobbitystmarymorstan)




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